Page 74

EPILOGUE

A t a table in the cozy cottage, Xenia arranged wildflowers in a vase of dark blue glass, humming to herself.

Every time she placed her elbow upon the surface, the table wobbled. As if the legs hadn’t been installed properly.

It didn’t really bother her. It was hard to be annoyed by anything in such a lovely place. The bluebird sky outside was always bright, the clouds always fluffy, the breeze always warm.

When she strode through the meadows every morning, the blooms she’d clipped the previous day had re-sprouted. So odd. But delightful.

The cottage was like that, too. The pantry and refrigerator restocked every morning. New books appeared on the shelves every few days. Firewood appeared underneath the mantle whenever she needed it.

She was never cold nor hungry nor thirsty. Never tired. Slightly bored.

More than a little lonely.

But she was safe, at least. She didn’t know how she knew that. But she knew.

She couldn’t remember how she’d gotten here. Couldn’t remember her life before...

If she concentrated very hard, sometimes she’d catch small snippets of memory.

A low, sultry chuckle. Fingers caressing her curls. A fang grazing her collarbone.

A pair of thundercloud eyes.

The snippets never materialized into full memories. All they did was lodge a persistent ache in her chest for hours afterward.

So, she tried not to trigger them. Tried not to think of him.

Whoever he was.

Instead, she picked wildflowers. And made tea. And read smutty books. And ate shortbread biscuits by the fire.

She plucked up a poppy, then leaned her elbow across the table to place it in the vase. The table wobbled, nearly tipping it, and she cursed.

She should fix it. She’d always been so good at fixing things. Hadn’t she?

She pushed out of her chair and crouched onto the floor.

Just as she was reaching for the offending leg, a knock sounded at the door. She was so startled she banged her head on the underside of the table.

No one had ever come to the cottage.

Rubbing at her sore crown—which faded immediately; she never felt pain for long in this place—she swung the door open.

“Hello?”

Her visitor—a little Fae girl—couldn’t have been more than six. A beautiful child with ash-brown curls, bright green eyes, and the cutest, tiniest pair of dark gray wings Xenia had ever seen.

“You’re glowing,” the girl said.

“What?”

The girl giggled. “Like a rainbow.”

Xenia looked down at her arms, but didn’t see any glow. The girl wasn’t glowing either.

“You’re not.”

The girl stretched out her limbs to make sure. “No, I’m not. I’m just visiting. He told me to come back here in my dreams. To where my story began. He said you might be lonely.”

“He who?” A tear tracked down Xenia’s cheek. When had she begun crying?

“He’s only got one wing, but it doesn’t matter because—” the girl beckoned Xenia closer, bearing a familiar sly grin “—he’s got a dragon .”

Something splintered in Xenia’s chest.

“Who are you talking about?” Her voice was little more than a cracked whisper.

The girl laughed again. “Well, who else? Daddy, of course.

“He’s coming for you.”