Page 10 of How To Please A Princely Fae (Wild Oak Woods #3)

WILLOW

I wake to an empty bed.

Chirp is nowhere to be seen, my owl familiar likely off hunting or stretching his wings before the sun fully hangs in the near-winter sky.

Kieran isn’t here either, and I tell myself I’m grateful I don’t have to deal with his warm, strong body stretched out next to mine.

Definitely grateful. Relieved. That, too.

Mm-hmm.

The window shows an expanse of thick, pregnant gray clouds, and I frown at the crust of frost lining the sill.

It’s too early for snow.

At least, it should be.

It’s unusual for us to see snow here before the new year. Not impossible, but improbable.

I sit up, rubbing at my eyes and not quite believing the sight just outside the panes of glass. Grackles flit about over the frosted outlines of fallen leaves, and cold washes over me as a strong wind buffets the house.

Winter, it seems, has decided to breathe upon Wild Oak Woods early.

My frown deepens as I slide out of my warm bed, my toes chilling the moment they leave the threadbare rug and hit the wood planks.

Where is Kieran?

Washing up is going to be brisk today—the need to make sure my accidental house guest hasn’t gotten into trouble takes precedence over how much I want a nice, long soak in the tub.

Sighing, I disrobe quickly, settling on using the wash basin as fast as possible and then going to hunt for my royal pain of an apprentice.

Water slides from the mouth of the pitcher into the floral ceramic basin, the enchantment on the rim causing the flowers wreathing it to bloom as the bowl fills. The charmed flowers release a lovely, fresh scent as they open, perfuming the water and the air as I wash up.

My red curls stick out at every impossible angle, and I tsk at my reflection in frustration as I run my fingers through it in an attempt to tame my mane into something less wild. I release an annoyed huff of breath and give up, raking it back into an impressively mussed topknot, and splash icy water all over myself before vigorously rubbing down all my important bits.

Teeth are next, and I tell myself that I always spend an inordinate amount of time brushing them, and that my desire for cleanliness has nothing to do with my desire for Kieran.

A soft hoot interrupts my internal lies, and I rush to put on my favorite pair of thick fleece-lined trousers, high wool socks knitted in shades of pink. The softest shirt I own tucks into the tops of the pants, and I fasten my well-worn leather suspenders over my shoulders and throw a bulky knit sweater over the whole ensemble.

There.

Not in the least appealing, I decide upon looking at myself in the mirror again.

The scowl really rounds things out, too.

He’ll remember he’s not attracted to me in no time at this rate.

A kernel of worry roots deep in my heart, because other than Chirp softly clawing at his perch in the hall, there’s no sound from the rest of my house and shop.

“Maybe the wind is masking it,” I tell myself, tugging my warmest boots over the lurid pink socks.

My stomach rumbles, and I realize in my exhaustion last night I didn’t eat, simply collapsing into bed in lieu of anything resembling a nighttime ritual.

I scrub a palm over my freshly washed face and grimace before throwing open the door, half expecting to find Kieran curled up on the floor of the hallway like an unwelcome cat who’s made himself at home.

The hall is empty, save for Chirp, who softly hoots and lands on the thick cream sweater over my shoulder.

A fresh blast of wind rattles the lead-paned windows, and I glance out them with an equally fresh wave of concern.

“What is going on with this weather?” I murmur, tugging at a loose curl before shoving it behind my ear.

I don’t like it.

My plants in the greenhouse should be fine, but half my outdoor garden hasn’t gone fully dormant yet. I make a mental note to cover everything as best I can, and sing some lullabies to soothe the perennials into their winter sleep.

“Where is Kieran?” I ask, fumbling through the door to my laboratory, because there is no way he’s still in here. The soap recipe should have set up within an hour, even if it took him much longer to make it than me.

The laboratory is empty, but that’s not what brings me up short.

There are nine loaves of soap curing on the table, three different kinds. Stunned, I marvel at them. The tops aren’t as neat as mine would be, but they’re perfectly acceptable. There’s no soap ash either, which means that not only did Kieran execute all three soap recipes correctly, he read my personal notes on ensuring the loaves would be as pretty for display as he could manage.

Tears threaten, stinging my eyes, and all my resolve to be annoyed with him simply vanishes.

This isn’t something I expected him to do; to simply tackle all the soap-making on my extensive to-do list, nor to do it carefully and well. It’s not something anyone who just wanted to have sex with me would do.

It’s thoughtful. It’s caring, and it’s kind.

And it’s going to take all of my willpower to keep the male at arm’s length, because goddess, does it feel wonderful to have someone do something so thoughtful for me.

I sniffle, wiping the back of my hand over my now-wet lashes, some of the pressure that’s dogged my steps for days finally alleviated.

My gaze lifts from the lovely assortment of soaps curing on the otherwise tidy worktable to the shelves that need to be restocked today.

Any remaining breath leaves my lungs, and my jaw drops.

They’ve been restocked.

Every ingredient sits in a perfectly straight row.

My boots tick-tick against the flagstone floor as I try to make sense of the sight before me. It’s all done perfectly. Flawless.

Each crystal vial and glass bottle has been tagged with twine.

“There’s an updated inventory sheet, too.” Kieran’s voice is a low, tired rumble, and I startle at the unexpected sound.

I swivel on the ball of my foot only to find him directly behind me, his brilliant wings extended fully behind him, half-moon circles under his eyes.

“Why?” My voice breaks on the word. “How? Did you stay up all night?”

“Because you needed help.” He shrugs one shoulder, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “And because I could give it to you. I would give you much more if you let me.” His big, warm hands bracket my upper arms and I tilt my chin up to him, not caring that tears are now openly streaming down my cheeks.

It seems cruel, this twist of fate, to give me the illusion everything I’ve ever wanted from a partner is in the male I want as a partner, only for it to be the result of some wayward spell.

“You don’t mean that,” I tell him, and it doesn’t come off as mean or callous as I’d like.

It doesn’t sound mean or callous at all. It sounds wretched, like I’ve been laid bare and vulnerable before him. Exactly as I feel on the inside.

His gaze darts between my eyes, as if he doesn’t know where to look, as if I’ve exposed myself to him and it’s too much.

It’s too much for me.

“I do mean that.”

I wriggle out of his grasp, trying to hold onto my own reality in lieu of his hands, and march around to the doorway again. Chirp nibbles at my earlobe in solidarity.

“Why can’t you believe that I want you? Want all of you?” This time, his voice breaks, and the sound hurts me.

I rub the ache in my chest.

“Because you’re under a spell, Kieran. You don’t… you don’t even like me.”

“You’ve said that over and over again,” he says fiercely, his wings buzzing behind him. “You’ve said it so often that it sounds more false every time you do. I just don’t know if you’re lying to yourself or if I was lying to both of us. Because there is no world in which I could be in the same place as you, breathe the same air as you, and not need you. Not want you. You are…” He pauses, his nostrils flaring as he inhales. “You are special.”

The strange, strangled way he says the word confuses me.

Because it doesn’t sound like it fits. It doesn’t sound like it’s what he meant to say at all.

My stomach growls.

“Did you sleep at all?” I ask him, changing the subject.

His wings buzz louder, but to his benefit, he doesn’t call out the fact I’m a coward, that I’m deathly afraid of whatever is happening between the two of us.

He doesn’t have to, though; it’s in the way he studies me, with a slight downward tilt to his chin. Kieran’s disappointed in me, and I hate it.

I hate disappointing people.

I hate how important disappointing him is while he’s under a spell.

Isn’t it?

“I don’t need as much sleep as you do,” he finally answers. “You need food.”

He gestures for me to leave the lab and meekly, I do, ashamed and on edge as we walk in tense silence to my kitchen…

An inelegant noise climbs from my mouth.

“Was that you or Chirp?” Kieran asks, huffing out a laugh.

I toss my hair, or try to, except I’ve forgotten it’s in a bun. I manage to stretch an arm up and fake a yawn, like I’m stretching and not just completely flustered about everything in my life at this moment.

Like the breakfast spread Kieran made while I slept in: scones and clotted cream and raspberry preserves. Thick, pillowy biscuits studded with dried fruit and nuts, a rasher of spiced sausages. Fresh fruit cut into shapes that mimic the fall night sky, apples in the shape of stars and pears shaped like crescent moons.

“I hope you’re hungry,” he says in a low voice, his lips brushing against my ear.

“This is too much,” I tell him, tears threatening all over again. “You can’t just come in here and?—”

“And make you breakfast? I can’t make you breakfast?” he interrupts again.

I narrow my eyes at him. “Exactly.”

He snorts, then rolls his eyes. “Too late and too bad.”

“You should have slept,” I insist as he pulls a chair out for me. The admonition sounds weaker even to my ears, but he has the decency not to laugh, just smiles softly down at me, one wing brushing my shoulder as he sits next to me.

“I am fine.”

“You should have at least gone back to the inn, you know?”

“Willow.” He emphasizes each syllable of my name, glaring at me over a plate he continues to fill with food before setting it in front of me. “Did you forget that we are supposed to stay together while the threat from the Elder Gods and wild magic persists? Or are you still considering throwing yourself at their… mercy?”

He spits out the word mercy as though it’s toxic, and I’m inclined to agree.

“I just want you to be comfortable,” I argue, resigned to the fact I’m not going to win this argument and yet still unwilling to give it up. I dip a knife into the raspberry preserves.

“I cannot possibly be comfortable if for one second I think my mate could be in danger.”

“I’m not in danger—” My knife clatters onto my plate. “Your what ?!”

He sighs with great gusto, rolling his pretty pale purple eyes up to the ceiling before rolling his shirt sleeve back to his elbow. A dark aubergine marking snakes up from his wrist, the botanical design as improbable as his word choice.

I flush, all my thoughts at a complete standstill, all my arguments totally forgotten.

The leaves that wind across his lavender skin are no ordinary vines—they’re the unmistakable boughs of a willow tree, dripping down his forearm like they’ve always been there.

“So now you see.”

I stuff a scone into my mouth as fast as I can, trying to buy time to think.

Unfortunately, all my mental faculties seem to be completely exhausted.

“Willow, I am yours.” He sinks to one knee beside me, his eyes beseeching, his voice desperate.

I chew slowly, crumbs spraying out over him.

Which, unfortunately, does nothing to deter him.

“I am yours, and you are mine. I would wait forever for you to acknowledge me, to taste you on my lips again, for you to claim me as your own. I would not rush you, but know that I will not give up my pursuit of you so easily. This mark,” he holds his arm up, thrusting the evidence directly into my line of sight, “this mark means that my mate has been found. And do you know when it appeared?”

I don’t know, and my mouth is full, so I simply shake my head and try to have one (1) coherent thought.

And fail miserably, all thoughts scattering at the light touch of his palm upon my cheek.

“It appeared the moment I scooped you up in my arms and brought you back here. You are my mate, the only one for me, my Willow, and I will not give you up for some Elder God. And I will not be leaving your side, even if it means I have to sleep on your floors to guard you for the rest of your days.” The words are fervent and powerful, and there’s no hint of humor on his face, just grim determination.

“I don’t understand,” I finally manage, though the words just come out garbled from scone.

He laughs, a gentle smile on his face, petting my hand before he stands and pours me a steaming cup of water, my favorite loose-leaf tea already in the strainer in the fine porcelain set.

“Ginger chamomile,” I say, shaking my head in disbelief.

“Your favorite.” He tilts his head, pleasure clear on his face. “It was easy to tell which you preferred.”

A minute ticks by, then another, the only sounds the thud of my heart in my chest and the howling of the wind outside. Even Chirp stays oddly quiet.

We gaze at each other until the silence between us is unbearable.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything. I am yours, and you are mine. Once you realize that, all will be well.”

“But the spell. Your memory?—”

He thrusts his arm down. “Memory has nothing on a mate bond, Willow. This is fate. My memory?—"

“Or lack thereof,” I mutter.

Kieran raises an eyebrow before continuing. “… has nothing to do with it. If I truly… if I was as awful as you say I was towards you, then all I can imagine is that I was trying to protect you.”

“Or yourself,” I say, my voice rising, surprising us both. “I’m hardly royal. I’m not even a fae.”

“Fate does not care. Neither do I.” The declaration comes out crisp and final, and I find myself blinking in surprise.

“You don’t care if I fit into your life?”

“My life before is gone. My memories of it too, apparently. I have no desire to return to the Underhill.”

“But you might,” I tell him.

“No,” he says, spreading his hands across the dining table, leaning heavily on it.

I follow his gaze to the dusty mauve flower-studded wallpaper that hangs on the upper half of the wall, the light wood board and batten, and the cupboards I’ve done my best to take care of, and frankly, all I see is home. Nothing magnificent or royal or fabulous or immortal, like what he must have been used to.

"You might," I mutter, feeling mutinous, trapped, and altogether unlike anything I've ever dealt with.

When he slams his hand onto the table I startle, and stare up at him with wide, disbelieving eyes. "Just because I've lost my memory doesn't mean I lost my faculty to make decisions. And where you’re concerned, Willow of Wild Oak Woods, I am wholly ready to make any decision necessary to stay by your side."

I want to glare at him, to scowl and frown and continue to argue, to tell him that there's no good that can come from any attempt to pursue a relationship while he doesn't have his memories, but I find that I want to believe him. I want to believe him so much that it hurts. A physical ache deep in my bones, deep in my heart, accompanied by awareness that says I'm sure to get my heart broken. But maybe, just maybe, I want to live inside his fantasy while I can grab it—any chance of happiness—with both hands, to catch it and hold it close to my chest so that it doesn't stand a chance at getting away.

My gaze traces the path of the flowers printed on the wallpaper and I swallow, then take a careful sip of the still steaming tea before me.

Kieran is watching me with careful eyes, like he's waiting for me to argue some more, like he expects me to resist. I must be one of the most unpleasant people in the world because knowing that that's his expectation immediately makes me want to be more agreeable, simply to spite him.

"Fine."

His eyebrows rise, practically disappearing in the silver luster of his hair.

"What do you mean, fine?"

I cross my arms over my chest in spite of my resolution not to argue. "Exactly what I said. If you are determined on being my mate, then fine."

I would've thought it impossible for his eyes narrow further, but he manages. And still, he’s one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen, all high cheekbones and lovely lavender skin, pointed ears, and strong muscles. The reality of what he's telling me crashes through my thick skull. He thinks we’re mates. He thinks that fate has brought us together, and judging by the fresh mark on his arm, there might be more truth to his allegations than I can stand to admit.

"So you're not kicking me out?”

My hand flies to my chest, my jaw dropping open with indignation.

"Of course I'm not kicking you out, we’re supposed to stay together. Or did you forget that too, just like you forgot how you can't stand me?”

He gives me a long look and I roll my shoulders, sagging and defeated, against the back of my chair. My hands fly to the thin porcelain of my teacup and I hold it in my hands not only to warm them up but as some sort of ridiculous barrier between the two of us.

"I wouldn't have left anyway," he says and he sinks into the chair next to mine. "I already told you as much.”

"I don't want to fight." I shake my head. I should be ecstatic. Instead, all I feel is a sense of bone-tiredness and the certainty that soon, the other shoe will drop. Kieran will remember why it is exactly he's been so cold to me, though I have no idea what the reason is, and the thought of getting my hopes up just to have them dashed nauseates me so much that I relinquish when his hands grip on the porcelain teacup then push the plate in front of me away.

"Do not look so sad,” he tells me, his brows creasing as he gives me a thorough once over. "I must've been truly horrible for you to react thusly to this news, or would you rather be wedded to one of the Elder Gods?"

I can't help but laugh at that, tipping my chin back and studying one of the many water stains on the ceiling. I've tried painting over them several times to no avail.

"I would've thought you would be pleased by this news, considering how deliciously the sin of your arousal perfumes the air every time I touch you,” he says smoothly.

I sputter in indignation, not able to get a word out edgewise before he continues.

“I assumed that some strange sense of human or witch propriety kept you from acting on your clear desires, and now that fate has revealed you to be mine, you would be gleeful at the news." He reaches for a piece of bacon and chews it as nonchalantly as is possible after one makes that sort of declaration. I stare at him, caught between annoyance and the realization that he is completely correct.

Kieran simply grins at me.

I take another bite of scone, this time smothered in clotted cream, to keep from answering.

"I always would have been a willing participant in any sexual fantasies about me you may be harboring, but now you can explore them knowing full well I would be loath to leave you afterwards." He cocked his head at me “...Is that not what you were worried about?"

Chew, chew, chew.

Swallow.

Take another bite.

Avoid the question.

“These are really quite delicious,” I tell him through a full mouth.

Half his mouth kicks up at the corner, a smile that sends fresh warmth through me.

Him leaving or breaking my heart hasn’t been what I was worried about, not really. He might have, yes, but that’s not what’s held me back.

It’s that I didn’t want to take advantage of the fact that his missing memories have led to a bizarre and unlikely fascination with me.

I prop my elbows on the table, well aware of how ill-mannered that is, and sink my face into them, breathing as slowly as possible.

“Are you unwell?” Kieran asks, worry clear in the words.

“Just trying to think.”

“Ah.”

“Ah,” I echo, the sound trapped between my sleeves.

I inhale slowly, breathing in the many mouth-watering scents of the spread in front of me, the lavender I use to wash my linens, and the faint herbal scent of my own magic.

“Tell me you aren’t still thinking of running off to the Elder Gods,” Kieran says, and his voice breaks on the last word.

“No.” My response is immediate, and fervent, and surprises us both.

His hand wraps around mine, first one and then the other, until both of mine are caged in warm lilac flesh.

“Then you’ll stay with me,” he presses.

I never thought before that time had mass, that it was something besides the ticking of a clock or the sun moving across the skies.

But with his gaze searching mine, his body leaning towards me, the future weighs heavy on my shoulders, heavier even than the pull of the past.

Our past—the one where I’ve pined after him for weeks only to be met with ice—and my past—where I’ve always been the one overlooked or worse, an afterthought to any partner I wanted.

His hands squeeze mine, but it’s the slight tremble in them that urges me to speak, to break the spell of what was and what might be for what is, right now.

“I’ll stay.”

“You’ll stay,” he echoes, and a slow smile transforms his face, the warmth enough to melt snow in winter.

I shrug a shoulder, trying to deny my own pleasure at seeing it, at the absurdity of all of it. “I live here.”

“So you do,” he says, and for a second, I worry I’ve hurt his feelings.

I raise an eyebrow.

“So you do,” he repeats, and a spark of mischief lights in his eyes that washes my worry away. “We have things to do today, people to see,” he continues. “I’ve already tended to your more sensitive plants in the greenhouse, as well as made all the soap that you had listed in your soap-to-make list.”

“Are you trying to put me out of a job?” I ask, half teasing. Or aiming for it, at least. It comes out slightly brittle, though. With too much pressure, the question would fissure and crack like too-thin ice.

Over thirty years of not feeling good enough. Of feeling like the things I do, the magic I have, my entire life’s work is a simple matter of sunshine and water and time. Things an Unseelie fae prince could do without a second thought.

Things any witch with an inclination could do without so much as trying.

I swallow, trying to push the ugly thoughts back, trying to shove them back into a box and lock them away until I have the energy to pull them out and find all the holes in them.

“Never.” He stands up, then leans down, close enough it feels like he’s thinking of kissing me.

Or, maybe, I’m simply thinking of kissing him . My core tightens, the ever-present heat his mere existence seems to conjure spreading like wildfire, fanned to new heights by his proximity.

“You are special, Willow of Wild Oak Woods, and not just to me. You are special because you are you, a fierce, ungovernable force of nature, whose love of all things natural and green speaks to her wild heart.”

My mouth pops open in surprise, my eyes widening, and this time, the heat that explodes through me has less to do with lust than joy at feeling seen.

At the truth in his ferocious words.

Even if Kieran doesn’t remember his past—he sees me. He sees who I am, and who I want to be, the witch who hides inside her greenhouse coaxing leaves to unfurl and blossoms to bloom.

Now he’s the one coaxing met to do so, too.

This is real. Whatever happened to Kieran to have him lose his memories… I don’t understand it, but this moment now, this man in front of me—this is more real than anything he’s shown me before.

I’m moving without thinking, responding to all the hope and desire I’ve caged inside me, bundled up and smushed down until it threatened to explode out of me.

My lips brush against his, and my eyelids flutter shut.

It’s the barest of contact, and yet my breath catches in my chest, agonizing and wonderful all at once.

I want more.