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That was another thing Poppy had trouble believing, the idea that the long life Rai insisted would be hers would come with similarly extended fertility.

But since she was confident she did not want children now , she’d supposed it didn’t matter.

She would burn that bridge when she came to it.

With dozens of siblings and cousins, nieces and nephews, Rai’s genetics weren’t about to be lost. And if she left a legacy of art, if her work inspired even one artist of a new generation?

That would be fucking amazing. Genes weren’t everything, not in the modern world.

In the meantime, she was grateful that Rai’s parents had come to support her opening.

Both the portrait of Rai and their own portrait were, of course, theirs.

When the show closed in the coming September, Rai had sworn he would place them in his hoard and bear them to Lake Michigan with his own hands.

And his parents’ delight at their own depiction was encouraging.

“Thank you for coming,” Poppy said now, trying not to be intimidated by Rai’s mother’s mature beauty. “I’m sorry the monsoon is…underwhelming.”

Rai’s mother—Poppy did not know her name yet—simply smiled sweetly. “The rains come when they come. I thank you for inviting me, though it is sad that my beloved must conceal his glory.”

Poppy flushed. “Well, there’s only so much room in here,” she apologized.

Seriously, Rai’s father’s beard was beyond epic. It would have filled the entire gallery, had he not agreed to tuck most of it into faerie, leaving merely a smart goatee. Rai had been plainly envious of even that, which had led to more lethal pouts, which had led to vast amounts of imaginative sex.

She might not be a beard believer yet, but she was absolutely in favor of beard-envy-inspired oral.

“I must speak to the delightful Jen,” Rai’s mother said in a voice like a tinkling waterfall.

“She has promised to share the latest stories from her Netflix.” She flowed away as ineffably as she’d arrived, somehow appearing by her husband’s side to give his false goatee a caress before drifting in Poppy’s mother’s direction.

Jen turned to greet her with genuine delight.

That had been the greatest surprise of the past year, her mother’s blossoming.

Something about rescuing Poppy from the desert had awakened a new resolve, and it had transformed into new joy.

Her psychiatrist had said something about a real disaster breaking her out of her cycle of rumination regarding possible disaster, which Poppy didn’t completely understand, but she couldn’t deny the results.

Jen was more like the mother Poppy remembered from her childhood, a little careful and particular but also honest in her joy and deeply, deeply loving.

Though she still had bad days, they were much better managed, and she was mostly able to regulate them herself.

She’d even hinted that she wouldn’t mind if Poppy and Rai left her in Tucson for a time so they could have a proper honeymoon.

It had helped that their third round of appeals had succeeded, and she had finally been granted early access to Poppy’s father’s Social Security allotment.

They’d had a small celebration when Ofelia had sent them images of the acceptance letter from home, and another when the first prorated deposit had appeared in her mother’s account.

“You earned it,” Poppy had said when proposing a toast. “Dad may have done the painting, but you were his inspiration to paint. He would never have earned a penny if you weren’t by his side.”

Her mother had flushed shyly. “If you say so.”

Poppy had not let her self-deprecate. “He told me so.”

“I believe it,” Rai had chimed in vigorously. “He cannot have been so blind as to not see the way you shine.”

Later, Poppy had given Rai an extra kiss of gratitude. “Thanks for making Mom feel special.”

He’d blinked, nonplussed. “What do you mean? She is a hero of great renown. The fae of Tucson sing of her bravery. Of course she is special.”

That had earned him an extra blow job of gratitude. Possibly two, though a pout had also been involved in the second. And then of course Rai, being Rai, had taken it as a challenge, like they had an oral sex scorecard.

He’d won. Poppy’s jaw could only take so much.

She took a deep breath and strolled out into the crowds of people.

She knew that a lot of them were just there for the free wine and cheese and curated grapes, or for the dubious social cachet of being present at an arts event, however minor.

Some of them would move on to other openings that evening, getting fed and tipsy at a variety of artsy affairs.

Some others would linger, pontificating over some detail or other of her work.

There were a number of fae present; Ofelia had of course come, with some she claimed as family and friends, and there were a few children who had not yet sprouted their wings, agog at the chance to meet Rai, the local legend who had defied the elements for love.

There was to be no element-defying tonight, though—Poppy had worked with Ofelia to provide elemental amenities allowing fae to recharge, small fountains and bowls of sand, verdant plants and racks of blazing candles, and an iron bowl of copper and aluminum nuggets.

She didn’t know if the people who’d interacted with the elemental displays were fae or just curious humans, but either way it seemed to have been worth their while.

Most of the visitors, though, were beloved friends and family, even some of her editing clients, and Poppy could not keep her heart from singing at their presence.

There were more than she’d imagined they had between them.

It was gratifying to have a crowd of people wishing her well, when just the year before she’d believed herself and her mother to be alone in the world.

But the one she treasured most, the one she loved most—apart from her mother, which was a different kind of love—was holding court before one of her saguaro paintings, his eyes alight and his smile at a bazillion watts.

He’d worn a bespoke business suit with an elaborately folded necktie for the event.

Poppy headed toward him, snagging another glass of merlot on the way.

It was an excellent merlot. She felt zero guilt.

As she approached, she caught snatches of Rai’s pitch.

“Can you not see the energy?” he was saying, his eyes alight with sales fervor.

“Poppy has captured the very essence of this cactus, bringing it to life upon the canvas. You can feel it, the way the human world has beleaguered it, and the way it fights back, reaching out to the skies with all that it holds, each needle striving to be all it can be.” He cast his rapt listeners a knowing glance.

“I mean that not in the United States Army sense, but in the existential sense. Every cactus wishes only to live, to grow, to someday bear a crown of hopeful blossoms at which hummingbirds and butterflies might feed. That hope is infused into every line of this painting, every brush stroke, every delicate shade.”

One of his listeners raised a hand, as if she were a student in a class. “‘She lifts her arms to the azure sky’?”

“Precisely,” Rai said, bestowing a brilliant grin upon the speaker.

“It is a declaration of power. This cactus is undefeated. She is strong, she is beautiful.” He turned back to the painting.

“See here, how Poppy has painted the cactus spines, each a vector out into space? Each is a song, a story waiting to be told. Each sings of beauty, of love, of eternity.” He turned outward again, and his gaze caught Poppy’s.

He fell silent, his eyes sending love to her as clearly as a radio broadcast .

One member of his audience—it may have been the one who asked the question, but Poppy didn’t care—sighed and hurried in the direction of the staff member manning the guest book. Another sale, Poppy thought, raising her eyebrows at Rai.

He grinned back, unrepentant.

That might be the thing she loved best about him.

His complete lack of shame. It had been frustrating, then amusing, and finally dead sexy.

It was also an appallingly successful sales tactic.

Poppy had teased him about it earlier, the way his masquerade as a salesman had turned into reality; he had taken it as the highest of compliments.

“I have chosen to learn of sales, to be of use,” he’d said, “and so I wish to be excellent at it. It is as Ayrton Senna has said. ‘There is no middle ground. Either you do something well, or not at all.’”

Watching him now, the ease with which he charmed his audience into sale after sale, she couldn’t deny that he had succeeded.

Maybe she should get him another award, to match the Manly Man award she’d secretly designed for him.

A “Faked It Till You Made It” award would look great on the guest house shelves.

With a nod to those of his audience who were still paying attention, Rai wove through the crowd to approach her, his eyes alight.

“Glorious Poppy,” he said, catching her hand and pressing a fervent kiss upon it. “Is tonight all you have dreamed of?”

“Mostly,” she said, putting on a little pout of her own. “I was hoping it would rain.”

“Were you?” He regarded her with amused adoration.

“The weather app lied to me. It promised me rain. Seventy-five percent chance.” She drank down the rest of her wine quickly. She knew that expression on his face. Had been hoping for it. And she knew how to turn it up to eleven. “It lied. ”

“Curses be unto the weather app,” Rai said silkily, drawing her toward the door.

“And here I was,” she said with a deeper pout, “hoping to have my lover take me above the clouds for a little…” She raised her eyebrows pointedly. “ Attention. ”

Thunder rumbled in his breast and his eyes flashed. “I am your husband. ”

“That depends on who you ask,” she said archly. “Technically you don’t legally exist, so technically —”

Rai growled under his breath and set his hands to her waist, yanking her against him. “We have handfasted,” he said fiercely. “My mother and father bore witness, as did your mother. We are wed . ”

She dragged her teeth across her lower lip. “And? By human laws you are just my lover. Illegal. Illicit.” She let her gaze drop to his lips. “ Naughty .”

Thunder roared outside, and they turned together to see rain pelting the streets beyond the gallery’s glass doors. Perfect.

Rai turned back to her, tilted his chin at an arrogant angle. “I say I am your husband, and you are my wife.” There was laughter in his eyes; he loved this game as much as she.

“And I say,” Poppy challenged, “that I am your lover. And I demand satisfaction.” She raised her eyebrows in challenge. “ Naughty satisfaction.”

“Do you?” Rai glanced back at the gallery patrons.

His mother and hers, watching them indulgently.

His father, looking regal and pompous and vaguely resentful of his reduced beard and human glamour.

Friends, cousins, hangers-on, all absorbed by wine and cheese and paintings, only a few of them giving sidelong glances at the drama taking place by the doors of the gallery.

They would not miss them, Poppy knew. And so did Rai, from the expression on his face when he turned back to her.

“I do demand satisfaction,” she said, lifting her chin to an angle to match his. “You gonna give it to me or what?”

“Well,” he said, clasping her hand in his. “I suppose I must prove my devotion to you, then.”

She granted him a narrow inclination of her head. She had him now. Right in the palm of her hand. “You’d better,” she said loftily.

He reached up, brushed a thumb across her lower lip, sending lightning through her, all the way to her toes. “Beware,” he said in a low, harsh voice. “I will not relent until you have screamed your passion for me to the stars.”

“Promises, promises,” she said with her nose in the air, then directed a smirk in his direction. “Or are they just more lies?”

With another growl, he caught her by the waist, whirling her through the doors and out into the rain. “I love you,” he whispered, all play and pretense gone, naked truth in his eyes.

“And I love you,” she murmured back, throwing her arms around his neck. “Let’s fly.”