Page 4 of Kissing Potions and Elves (Oakvale Ever After #1)

ISOBEL

T his is most certainly not a cottage. It’s a manor house with Elven architecture, ornate spires, polished stone, and glowing crystal windows. The front courtyard is lined with moonflowers and elegant topiaries. A carved stone bench sits beside a large, three-tiered fountain.

When we step inside, he gently sets me on my feet, and I gaze at my surroundings in awe and wonder.

The interior of the house is even grander than I’d envisioned, with polished wood floors, crystal lamps, silver-trimmed furniture, and tapestries that look like they belong in a royal library.

A faint hint of parchment and pine permeates the air.

The entire place reminds me of him —ordered, exact, and pristine.

“This way,” he says as he leads me up the stairs and down a long hall to a pair of silver-handled doors. “This is the guest room.”

When we step inside, I gasp. It’s absolutely breathtaking.

There’s a four-poster bed draped in gauzy silver fabric, a velvet chaise and sofa that sit before a glowing hearth along the left wall.

Tall windows and a rather impressive balcony overlook a lovely garden out back, where fireflies drift through glowing red roses and blue and white moonflowers.

“Will this be adequate?” he asks.

I nod slowly, drinking in the elegance all around me. “This is the most beautiful place I’ve ever been.”

Lyrion frowns, as if my compliment makes no sense to him. He’s probably used to grander things. Perhaps this is quaint for someone like him.

“Through that door”—he points to the far wall—“is your private cleansing room. I’ll be in my chambers next door,” he says, gesturing vaguely toward the hall. “If you require anything, just ring the bell by your bedside, and a servant will come.”

My mouth drops open. “You have servants?”

“It’s just the one.”

“Oh, just the one,” I repeat weakly, stunned by such a lavish lifestyle. “Well, of course. That’s… normal.” Because everyone has at least one servant, right?

Lyrion lifts one perfectly arched brow, giving me a look that suggests he’s possibly questioning my intelligence.

“Well,” he says as he heads toward the door.

“I’m going to retire for the evening. I’ll see you at breakfast tomorrow, and then we can start trying to figure out exactly what you put in my tea. ”

“That sounds great.” I fidget with my skirt.

“I’m going to um… retire as well,” I reply a bit awkwardly.

“To my bed,” I add. In this palatial room that is bigger than anything I’ve ever seen.

“I’ll see you tomorrow for breakfast and…

” My voice trails off as Lyrion makes a hasty retreat to the hallway, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

I let out the breath I’ve been holding, shoulders sagging. Gods above, this has been a strange day, that’s for sure.

As I glance at the enormous bed and the velvet furniture, I’m suddenly very aware of the dried mud on my shoes and the hem of my dress. When I open the door to the cleansing room, the smell of lavender floods my senses.

Inside is a white marble counter and sink with a wide mirror, a large claw-foot tub with knobs for hot and cold water, and a separate smaller room with a toilet.

After filling the bath, I strip out of my muddy clothes and step into the glorious tub, submerging myself completely and allowing the hot water to soothe my tired muscles and rattled nerves.

When I’m finished, I wrap a soft, fluffy white towel around my body and then walk back into the bedroom to search for something to sleep in. I rummage through a large chest of drawers and find a long undershirt.

It must be one of Lyrion’s because it smells faintly of clean linen and parchment, just like him.

I slip it over my head. It’s a bit large, the neckline hanging so my left shoulder is bare, and the hemline falls just above my knees.

But the fabric is comfortable and softer than anything I’ve ever owned.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, I glance at my bandaged hand. Lyrion wasn’t nearly as cold as I expected. He’d actually seemed worried, his touch gentle and careful. Maybe he isn’t all sharp edges and snobbery. Perhaps there’s more to him.

The house feels cold, too big, and too quiet, and I wonder if he has any friends or family. Come to think of it, I’ve never seen him speak to anyone in the café or witnessed him with anyone when I’ve seen him in the village.

He arrived in town a few months ago, and there are rumors that he’s some sort of High Elf nobility. The mansion certainly fits that theory. Perhaps I can ask him some questions tomorrow and find out more about his life.

Suddenly, I remember what got us into this deal in the first place: his headache. Guilt fills me. I grab a thick robe from the back of a chair and wrap it securely around my form. I slip into the hallway, my bare feet silent on the polished floors, and pause before his door.

Raising my hand, I gently knock, but there’s no answer.

Maybe he’s asleep. I bite my lip, debating briefly before carefully pushing the door open just a crack, and my breath catches in my throat.

Lyrion lies sprawled across the massive bed, his chest bare. Heat rushes to my face. He’s stunning, even in his sleep. Shadows and moonlight carve the sculpted planes of his lean, muscular form.

Moon and stars, he’s even more handsome than I’d imagined.

Tiptoeing closer, I lean over him, trying to see if he’s awake. His dark lashes rest softly against sharp cheekbones, lips parted just enough that I can see a hint of perfect white teeth and his pointed Elvish fangs.

Even so, he looks... soft somehow in the peacefulness of sleep. Less like a pompous Elf lord. More like a regular person, albeit a very attractive one. I wonder if he has anyone who looks at him like this.

“Lyrion?” I whisper.

His eyes snap open, their violet depths blazing with sudden intensity, all traces of softness completely gone. For a terrifying second, he looks like a predator startled awake by a hapless mouse.

I yelp, stumbling backward.

He blinks rapidly, the predatory gleam fading into confusion. “What are you doing here?” He sits up and presses a hand to his forehead with a low groan.

“I—I remembered your headache,” I stammer, clutching the robe tighter around me. “I mean, that’s what got us into this mess in the first place, right? I thought I could help if it’s still bothering you. Maybe make you a cup of tea?”

“Tea?” He arches a condescending brow. “You really expect me to trust you to make me anything after what happened?”

I wince inwardly. He’s right. It does sound foolish.

However, it was an accident and he doesn’t have to be so rude when I’m only trying to help.

Straightening, I tip up my chin. “You know what? I was just trying to be nice. And I may not be able to make you any magical tea, but I certainly can make you a regular cup of lavender or chamomile.”

He sighs heavily. “Fine. Then I’d like a cup of lavender tea. Please.”

I smile, feeling a small victory fluttering warmly in my chest that he actually said ‘please.’ “I’ll be right back.”