Page 3 of His Dark Delights

“They’re doing well. Had a new grandchild join the fray while selling my wares in the capital.

The village has become noisier.” He chuckled.

“Ah, but I have this from my wife. She’s awfully torn up about your father and you being left alone out here, so she made this for you.

” He reached into a bag hanging over his saddle, then passed it over.

I gratefully accepted, eyes widening as I detected honey rising from the parcel. Overwhelmed at the kind gesture, I gasped, “Honey cake! Oh, I love honey cake.”

“There’s a jar of fresh honey butter in there, too. Same recipe your father always came into town for. My missus knew he bought it especially for you, Lilly.” The sympathy in his tone scraped the raw edges of my grief.

I hugged the gift to my chest, sniffing back a flood of unwanted tears. “Thank you so much. Will you give Mrs. Tatum my thanks as well?”

No one else from the modest excuse of a village had offered condolences when Father passed.

Aside from the village cleric who recited Father’s last rites over the freshly churned earth of his grave.

Once buried, no one dared speak to me anymore.

After one harrowing attempt to exchange goods in town with everyone sneering or scurrying away from me, I stopped trying altogether.

Better to remain on the edge, forsaken as an outcast where it was safer.

Lonely. But safe.

“Certainly, Lilly. Though, I fear I must add that I didn’t come bearing only cake. I have a warning for you as well.” Mr. Tatum gripped his mare’s reins, and stress lined his aged face, distressed by the news burdening his tongue.

Dread skittered along my skin, and goosebumps followed. My heart turned into stone as I leashed back control of my composure.

“You’ve heard of the new king, yes?”

His somber question landed like a swift kick to the gut.

I’d heard enough gossip and whispers about the rise of the new monarch during my final ventures into the village last summer.

Mixed reactions included excitement about the news.

It was something to talk about, after all.

But his ascension to the throne of Elleslan brought strife and increased prejudice. Which led to open war.

“He’s been more active in this region recently. We don’t talk about it in the village as a courtesy to your father, but most assume the reason he kept you secluded.”

I took a small step back, and my heart thumped painfully.

“Now, I’m not saying we’d give you away.

We all admired your father in the village.

But I’ve heard nothing good about this ruler on my travels.

King Soren or something or another. He’s brutal to the point of utter savagery.

You need to be careful most of all, Lilly.

There’s been word of soldiers in the woods.

Knights who bear his banners are rampaging through the kingdom, hunting the fae, one region at a time. ”

My mind briefly darted to the man in my bed, and my heart stopped.

“Do you know what they’re calling this new king?” Mr. Tatum asked solemnly. I shook my head. I recalled tales of the new king’s existence and rumors of his rise to power in the recent years, but not much more.

Mr. Tatum’s chest fell with his severe exhale. The older gentleman peered down at me with pity in his eyes, a frown deepening the brackets around his mouth. “They’re calling him the Fairy Butcher.”

“Thank you for the warning, sir.” The ghastly title struck through my heart. Frigid blood coursing through my veins provoked a vicious shiver through me. A feigned smile split my lips. “King Soren the Fairy Butcher? Well, I loathe to imagine the songs the bards will sing of him.”

Mr. Tatum chuckled. A heavy and morose sound. “You’ve got a point. I’m sure the tales they’ll sing of him will be morbid, even more so if you’re a fae.” He glanced at the scarf on my head. “Even only half.”

I almost choked over the dry lump in my throat. Hugging the gifted parcel tighter to my chest, my free hand idly traced the arch of my ear under the scarf.

“Again, I’m sorry about your father, Lilliana.

Be careful in the coming storm.” Mr. Tatum offered one last nod before urging his mare toward the road.

Alone with the cake in my arms, I watched Mr. Tatum vanish along the trail into the village.

With tears stinging the corners of my eyes and a heart made of stone, I turned and fled for the safety of my cottage.

Mr. Tatum’s warning hung over my head with the severity of an executioner’s blade.

The front door banged shut as the first raindrops dotted the ground. Moments later, a torrential downpour assaulted the roof. I allowed myself a few moments to breathe, to collect myself, and fight through the leaden fatigue in my muscles.

I stored the honey cake, then I stoked a fire in the primary hearth and mindlessly tossed together a stew for supper.

After eating, I checked on the wounded knight in the bedroom.

He slept soundly, and I noted a return of color on his face.

His lashes were long and dark against the golden tan of his skin.

I didn’t know men could have such long, dark lashes.

Lured forward by the siren call of that loose strand of hair, I leaned forward and brushed it back from his forehead. Once again, I observed that he really was the most absurdly gorgeous male I’d ever seen. It was better than thinking about the circumstances I’d found him in.

As I drifted away from the man, his eyes shot open, and I squawked like a startled chicken. An unyielding hand caught my wrist hovering near his face, yet it was the dazzling pools of his blue eyes that held me captive.

“Has Freyja come to take me to the underworld?” His brittle voice croaked. Deep and sultry regardless of the raw rasp from injury and disuse. Something about the sound of it reached deep and lit a spark in an undiscovered space behind my navel.

My breath caught in my throat, and I shook my head. “I am no goddess, sir.”

“You lie. I am in your arms and on my way to the afterlife,” he insisted.

“Rest, sir. You must recover.”

“Rest?” An unreadable emotion flicked across his face. “Can I? Finally? Is my task over? Have they all finally died?” Without further argument, his eyes drifted shut and his head thumped into the pillow. Yet his hold remained on my wrist when his hand dropped to his chest.

Heart hammering and cheeks burning, I twisted my hand from the knight’s impressive grip.

Unmoored in a sea of confusion and uncertainty, I thoughtlessly drifted to the window seat across the room.

I sank into the thin cushion, wishing it would gobble up my exhausted body.

My opposite hand feathered over the pulsing mark on my wrist left by his grasp.

The space throbbed with warmth, as if he still held on tight, refusing to relinquish me.

He had compared me to the goddess of love and beauty. That must have been his injuries, some blow to the head speaking for him. Not even a deep breath soothed the turmoil under my skin, raging as wildly as the weather outside.

“Who are you?” I whispered into the dark. Haunting thoughts festered in the dark recesses of my mind, seething for my attention. “Are you one of the Fairy Butcher’s knights? Do you have fae blood on your hands?”

If he did, perhaps I’d made a mistake in saving him.

What if the knight awoke and realized the hidden half of my heritage?

Would he kill me without hesitation despite saving his life?

No, I wouldn’t think like that. All life was precious, and my father would have wanted me to save him.

At least, that’s what I told myself. It eased a fraction of my concerns as I braced myself for the long nights ahead.