Pretty does not begin to describe her. She has a face that would haunt a man. Made for poetry and sonnets. One that would break even the strongest fae warrior.

Although she slips away, her face has been burned into my memory.

If I were to close my eyes, I would see hers.

From this day forward, every time I come to this spot, I will be looking toward that alley, hoping for a glimpse of her.

Because a glimpse is all we can have. There is a reason our worlds are divided. Seelie fae have no natural defenses; they are soft in every sense of the word, and their chances of survival on our side of the bridge are non-existent.

As for one of us ending up here?

The Seelie have made it clear how they feel about the monsters across the canyon.

Still, I find my feet carrying me toward that alley, telling myself that I only want to ensure their safety. After all, if either of them meets a terrible fate between here and where they are living, we will be to blame.

“You are in charge,” I tell Maddox.

Gryff casts a wary glance over his shoulder. “Ever?”

I will take shit for this later, but I am too far gone to respond, jogging into the alley where the most enticing scent lingers. I have never been one for sweets, but the perfume clinging to the air makes my tongue tingle and nostrils flare. I track the scent to a row of modest cottages southwest of the city, across from a stretch of farmland overflowing with grazing cattle.

For some reason, knowing the female does not live in one of the monstrosities up the hill makes me impossibly happy.

Keeping to the shadows, I catch a flash of lilac from a circular window on the second floor.

Kerris Dawn stands in the center, like a portrait in a frame, the sun playing on hair so long, it appears endless.

Unseelie females keep their hair short so that it cannot catch if they need to flee for their lives. Not that this female has such worries, living in a place where sheep and cattle laze in swaying grass, not so much as a thought spared for wolves or other predators.

She turns her head and says something I cannot hear before walking out of view.

Somehow, I manage to leave that gate, but whatever spell she has cast over me lingers all the way back to the well where Maddox and Griffin are loading the last of the jugs. Although they do not speak, the curious looks in their eyes say it all.

They are searching for an explanation.

If only I had one.

9

“A good shoulder should never be covered.”

Nia Quill, An Observation