Page 11

11

“One should never arrive to someone’s cottage empty handed.”

Celeste Hanson Dawn, An Observation

I shouldn’t do it.

But that’s my head talking, and when it comes to the war between my head and my heart, the latter tends to win.

My heart is telling me to open the gate and step into the field of swaying grass. To run far and fast until I reach the town square.

I’ve officially been in Rosehill for over a week, and after nights out with Nia and two more dates with both Ronan and Trevor, I’m no closer to choosing a husband.

Both of my suitors are wonderful, but neither have done much to sway me either way. My stomach flutters when I’m with them, especially when I let them kiss me.

But it feels as if something is…

I don’t know. Missing?

There are flutters but no sparks.

Nia says I’ve lost my mind, that sparks belong in the hearth, not in the heart, and maybe she’s right. Every day brings me one step closer to the biggest decision of my life, and I probably shouldn’t let what’s lacking matter more than what’s there.

Ronan has proven charming and bold and shown that he is willing to do anything to receive my proposal.

While Trevor has proven attentive and cautious, his presence has been calming and solid.

In front of me are two very different lives, spread out like separate paths, yet here I am, stuck at a fork in the road without a bloomin’ map.

Which brings me to today: Wednesday.

Nia is suffering from cramps, so she’s spending the day in bed with a hot water bottle on her stomach, leaving me in front of a gate with a decision to make: Stay here where it’s safe and secluded or venture to the well.

The thought of staying makes me feel as if I’m being locked away in a cage.

The thought of going makes me feel as if I’m being swept away in a rushing river.

When you look at it like that, there really is no other choice to make.

I reach for the latch, push open the gate, and spring across the field, my hair flying behind me and the pack on my back bobbing. Tonight, my hair will be full of impossible tangles, but I cannot bring myself to care.

Without Nia around to caution me, I choose an alley even closer to the well so that I can get a better look. A loud gong chimes through the empty streets, the clock in the clocktower ringing in the noon hour. As if summoned by the deep, reverberating sound, unicorns and riders emerge like smudges of black across the horizon, accompanied by the steady thump of heavy hooves, rising and falling with every strike of the bell. Part of me expected to see different men from last week, but as far as I can tell, they’re all the same.

Certainly, the same leader, with the same slashing brows and serious, midnight eyes.

They fill their jugs in a show of muscles and strength, not so much as a conversation between them. It isn’t until they carry the final jug to the final cart that I get up the nerve to do what I’ve been planning all week.

With a deep breath, I push away from the wall, straighten the pack on my back, and step into the square.

The moment my slipper meets the cobblestone, the man at the front stills. Twelve heads swing my way.

How on earth did they hear me? I didn’t make a sound.

When they see me, their spines snap straight, making them even taller and more imposing. I take another step toward them, and another, encouraging my lungs to breathe as they watch me through curious eyes, silent as the cobbles.

Not wanting to frighten—or irritate—them by coming too close, I stop when I reach the well.

The man at the front clasps his hands at his back, and all the others follow suit. The movement pushes their toned chests forward.

Heavens above, I have never seen so many muscles in one place. The deep cuts of their chests, highlighted by the necklaces of white stones ringing their necks. The ridges of their abdomens. The indentations at their hips where those menacing daggers gleam.

Although my smile never falters, my nerves make my voice quake. “Hello.”

The others exchange glances, but the man at the front doesn’t look away.

None of the Unseelie smile or offer greetings of their own.

Perhaps they don’t speak our language.

Why didn’t I think of that possibility sooner?

I press a hand to my chest. “My name is Kerris Dawn. What’s yours?”

One of the men to the leader’s right steps forward to whisper in his leader’s very pointed ear.

Whatever he says earns him a glower, but no one addresses me.

All right.

I suppose that answers the language question. I slip my pack from my back, and the whole lot of them retreat a step, their hands falling to the hilts at their belts.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I brought a gift.” They don’t understand you, Kerris. They might not even know what a gift is. I withdraw the box of almond biscuits we baked last night.

Back in Gravale, I had a cantankerous old neighbor who lost his son in an avalanche and his wife shortly after. For over forty years, he was all alone—and surlier than a cat with no teeth. Week after week, I brought him blueberry-lemon bread. After a few months, he eventually invited me inside for tea. I visited him every week until the day he died.

These men might not be old, but they do look almost as wary as I flip open the top of the box.

The men at the back of the group lift onto their toes to peer inside. The leader’s chest expands, his nose wrinkling.

Perhaps he doesn’t know what a biscuit is.

How tragic.

I lift one out and take a bite, showing them there’s nothing to be afraid of and that they’re safe to eat.

The one who whispered stretches out a hand only to have it smacked away by their leader.

I step forward and raise my head to meet the leader’s narrowed eyes.

How is he so bloomin’ tall? The top of my head barely reaches his collarbone.

No matter. Being the size of a giant doesn’t necessarily mean he has the temperament of one. When I smile, his scowl deepens.

Hmmm… Perhaps I’m wrong.

Still, I withdraw another biscuit and hold it toward him.

To my shock, he stretches out a large hand and takes it from me. His hands aren’t hairy at all, nor are they covered in warts. Besides being that strange green-gray hue, they’re just like mine.

Just like mine if mine were gigantic.

He brings the biscuit to his nose and sniffs. His nose wrinkles once more even as he breaks the biscuit in two and pops one half into his mouth. The others watch attentively as he chews. There’s something oddly sensual about the flex of his jaw and bob of his throat when he swallows.

I truly must be losing it. Whoever heard of someone having an attractive throat? My smile tightens as I meet his steady gaze, the onyx pools of his irises threatening to pull me under, an ocean of ink and darkness.

The one who whispered tries once more to reach into the box, but the leader swipes the box from my hand, twisting around with a deadly glower aimed at his fellow Unseelie. The most heinous noise rumbles from his throat, somewhere between a growl and a snarl.

The hairs at the back of my neck lift, and goosebumps prickle my arms.

The others back away, hands tucked behind their backs once more, casting wary glances my way until it’s only the leader and me standing at the well, him clutching the box of biscuits to his chest as if he’s a dragon guarding treasure.

The feral noise stops, and the others take to their mounts.

After a beat, the leader turns back to where I wait. His endlessly dark eyes lower to mine, and my heart starts to race the same way it did the week before when I thought he saw me from across the square.

Something stirs deep within me. Not in my heart, but in my soul. A flash. A spark.

Heat spreads through my veins.

My tongue darts over suddenly dry lips. His eyes sharpen like blades as he tracks the movement.

What would it be like to kiss this man?

The errant thought is enough to make me stumble back.

His gaze drops to the biscuits and then he twists to look at his unicorn. I wait for him to thank me, to say anything at all just so that I can hear his voice.

I bet it would be deep.

I bet it would rumble like that throaty growl.

I’m left wanting as he turns on his heel and stalks back to his mount, the muscles of his back shifting and rippling with each step. I watch with my heart in my throat as he shoves his boot into the stirrup and throws his long leg over the beastly unicorn, my biscuits still clutched in one hand as he grips the reins with the other.

With a click of his tongue, the animal beneath him springs to life, whipping its horned head toward the road leading out of town where the other Unseelie have all but disappeared. He and the others ride away, the wheels of their carts creaking as they vanish on the horizon.

I wait for the spark to die, but it burns the whole way home.