Page 54 of Fey Regency

Oh. Oh and double oh. That’s…something, I’m sure. It is nice to know I’m not being betrayed after all, but the words, try and antidote, really don’t go well together. It is a most unpleasant combination.

A shadowy looking servant opens a set of double doors and Tristan strides in. The door closes behind us. It is dark in here. The only light appears to be firelight from the hearth. This room is similar in size and shape to Tristan’s main room, but this one is full of shelves and bookcases.Plants are everywhere. As are crystals and weird things like animal skulls.

Tristan carries me over to the fire. Dyfri is curled up in a blood red wingback chair, pulled up nearly to the flames. He is reading a leather-bound book, and has a golden goblet and a half empty bottle of dark wine on a small table beside him.

Tristan places me down on the very soft and fluffy rug by Dyfri’s feet. I curl up into a ball on my side and moan pathetically. Dyfri does not look up from his book.

“He is sorry,” says Tristan.

“He doesn’t look it,” replies Dyfri without looking up.

Tristan whimpers. “Please, Dyfri. Ollie is mostly human.”

Dyfri picks up his goblet and takes a sip, all while still reading his book. “I adjusted the dose accordingly.”

Motherfucker! He did poison me and he clearly has zero qualms about admitting it. What a little creep.

A spasm of pain rocks through my body, and I cry out helplessly. Oh fuck. It is getting worse. Much, much worse.

Suddenly, Tristan drops to his knees in front of his brother. “Please, Brother. He doesn’t know. He thought you had a crush on Blake. That is what his insult was aimed at.”

Insult? That’s a bit of an exaggeration. It was more of a jibe. A dig. I didn’t know fey were so damn sensitive.

Dyfri looks up from his book. He seems startled that Tristan is on his knees. Almost as if he has never seen such a thing before.

Oh, of course! It is all clicking into place now. Tristan haughtily declared to me that he gets on his knees for noone. Not even when it would make blow jobs a whole lot easier. So this is a big deal. Oh my. I think I’d have butterflies, if my stomach wasn’t currently trying to kill me.

“He doesn’t know,” Tristan says solemnly. “How could he? I haven’t told him, and he doesn’t have a translator.”

Dyfri’s dark eyes flick down to me. He frowns. Fuck. Here comes my Welsh secret. This night is the worst.

Dyfri reaches into his obsidian robe. He pulls out a vial of something that looks like apple juice. He hands it to Tristan, and goes back to reading his book.

Tristan sucks in a breath, quickly unstoppers the tiny bottle and shoves it between my lips. I swallow reflexively. I can feel the liquid going down my throat. It is cooling. Soothing. Ice against fire.

Tristan scoops me back up into his arms and hurries away without saying another word to Dyfri. I close my eyes and relax into the rocking motion of his long strides. I already feel so much better. My guts are untwisting. My organs unclamping. It is going to be okay. I’m going to live to see another day.

I startle as Tristan gently lies me down on soft furs. I glance around and grin. This is his bedroom.

He quickly strips his clothes off and climbs in beside me. He pulls me into a tight spoon and I cannot fight my contented sigh. Sleeping in his arms is going to be wonderful. And I’m so very tired. My eyes are already closing.

“Please don’t ever anger Dyfri again,” whispers Tristan softly.

A shiver runs down my spine. “Yeah,” I murmur drowsily. “You don’t have to worry. I am never, ever doing that again.”

If Tristan replies, I don’t hear him. I am already dreaming.

Chapter twenty-five

The breakfast table looks practically bare. There is only porridge and plain toast. I freeze halfway towards it and look up at Tristan in horror. He flashes me an absentminded smile because he is busy staring at a pile of papers that have been neatly placed by his place setting.

“It is a precaution. Simple foods for a few days to help you recover.”

A few days? What the hell! I thought a boring breakfast was bad enough. But a few days of bland food? This is terrible.

Tristan ignores me to go and take his seat. He picks up his papers and begins flicking through them.

With a heavy sigh, I flop into my own chair. The morning light is grey and overcast. Everything is gloomy and terrible. Despondently, I pull a bowl of porridge towards me. I stir it unenthusiastically while I prop my elbow on the table and rest my head on my hand.