Nia leans over me, her fingers white as the mortar where they dig into the wall. “They’re giants…”

Not giants, exactly, but certainly well over six feet tall. Taller than any of the men I met at the pub. “And would you look at that? Not a horn in sight.”

Not a shirt in sight either, which I appreciate more than I’ll ever admit. Unlike the softer Seelie men, the Unseelie look as if they’ve been carved from marble. The only hint of color is their greenish-gray skin that reminds me of a forest drenched in fog. While Seelie fae have hair of all shades and hues, the Unseelie’s hair is black as a raven’s wing. Some have the sides shorn so short, you can see the skin beneath.

Black rings climb their pointed ears, longer at the top than our own. They ride as if they’re one with the creatures beneath them, all lithe grace and raw power.

All twelve come to a sudden halt. After a careful sweep of the area, they dismount as one.

The muscles in their arms flex and bulge when they lift the jugs from the carts, carrying them up the stairs to the well at the top.

“Can you see any fangs?” Nia asks.

“No. You?”

“Not from here.”

Then again, their mouths are pressed flat, so it’s difficult to tell.

Drawing water is a slow, tedious process and the trip back to the carts takes two, sometimes three men to carry each jug. If there weren’t steps, they could wheel the carts right up to the well. Doesn’t seem fair that they should have to carry them when all we do is turn on the tap.

The man at the front seems to be directing the others.

And he is magnificent.

Not handsome in the conventional sense like Ronan or Trevor. His jaw and cheekbones look sharp enough to slice through you. But they’re not nearly as cutting as his eyes. Even from this far away, I can see they’re black as coal, and always alert.

Each man wears a dagger at his belt, the handle made from white wood. These weapons look nothing like Ronan’s blade. The prince’s was for show. I have a feeling theirs have tasted death.

Definitely not what I expected. “They’re…”

“Monsters. I know. I did warn you.”

Monsters? Hardly. “They’re beautiful.”

The man at the front turns his head toward us, and my stomach tenses, my lungs holding my exhale hostage. It’s a coincidence, nothing more. There’s no way he can hear or see us from all the way over there.

Even after I force out my breath and inhale anew, my head continues to spin.

“You are mad, Kerris Dawn,” Nia whispers.