“I think we should…” he began, his voice ragged. Except it wasn’t his voice at all, but the one he’d come to know as Gwynn’s. He blinked hard, and as the darkness cleared, he found himself lying in a meadow with Matilda looking up at him, her arms around his neck.

“You think we should do what?” she asked with a teasing lilt.

“Go riding,” he blurted. “I think we should go riding.”

Matilda laughed, her eyes dancing with amusement and mischief, and that was when Gabriel saw Olivia in her, her laugh echoing Olivia’s when he’d clumsily told her she was “something.”

“I would very much like to go riding,” she said. “But I suspect it’s not the same sort you’re offering.”

Gabriel felt Gwynn’s cheeks burn. And it was not the only part of him that burned as she said that, a white-hot flame of desire licking through him.

“Whenever you’re ready to go further, Gwynn, so am I. I just don’t want to rush you.”

“Rush me? No. I—”

I’m fine with anything. It’s you I’m taking it slow for.

That was what Gwynn wanted to say. Except it was a lie. They were fae. They did not see sexuality as humans did, as something to avoid until marriage and then do behind closed doors, under the sheets, in the dark.

Gwynn didn’t hold back for Matilda. He held back for himself. Because he was terrified that he’d be less than she expected. That he was not Arawn.

In this regard, as in so many others, Gwynn was outmatched. Arawn’s lovers saw no reason to keep silent, singing his praises loudly enough that Matilda heard and teased Arawn about it. No one talked that way about Gwynn. There was nothing to say. He’d spent his youth pining for Matilda, losing himself in his studies and his duties. Once they got together, he realized his lack of experience might prove problematic. So he proceeded as slowly as possible. Building his skills, he told himself, though he hadn’t progressed much beyond kissing, telling himself he hadn’t fully mastered that yet. Which was a lie. He was just afraid.

As Gwynn fretted and worried, Gabriel saw more of himself than he liked in the fae prince. Gwynn wasn’t more than a few years younger than Gabriel, but listening to his stammering made Gabriel feel like an old man watching a boy and thinking, Was I ever that young? The answer was no—Gabriel had never been that young. And yet it was, in a way, as if he was looking back on a younger version of himself, from a time so distant that he couldn’t quite believe this had been him.