That meant this. Right now, as Oberon gulped for breath and collapsed quivering into Ángel’s arms, he was transmitting on all channels. To Ángel, these were the most intimate, private moments of his life. But Oberon’s feelings of arousal, orgasm, and orgasm’s aftermath must be expressing themselves on his skin and broadcasting outward into the universe, in magic pulsations, for anyone to detect. No sense of privacy, and no sense of intimacy. Communication. All the time. That’s what made Oberon happy.

And there was no one to pick up the magical signal.

No one but Ángel, and the best he could do was inhale the smell rising from Oberon’s skin—like musk, like fruit, like cloves, like Oberon. He tightened his embrace around Oberon.

He could never hope to replace the lovemaking of other fae. He could fuck and be fucked, but he couldn’t commune with Oberon the way he needed.

He cradled Oberon in his arms, stroked his skin. “Baby,” he murmured, inadequately. “I got you.”

Chapter 22

Ángel woke up to an empty bed and tangled, aromatic, crusty sheets.

He felt sore and loose-hipped. He flexed his limbs and wiggled his toes, making sure everything was still connected, before rolling out of bed. Skipping his usual treadmill run, he staggered to the shower.

This development is not going to stay a secret for long. There might not be cameras in Ángel’s bedroom, but those sheets told a story. Lily would notice.

Ángel let hot water pour onto his head and run into his eyes. He was not shy. But he felt a little shy about this.

People would not understand.

Oh, who cared if anyone understood? He’d had the most fantastic sex, and he was happy.

He went down to the kitchen for his morning coffee and toast. Lily was there. She didn’t need to see his laundry: somehow she clearly knew everything. She seized his hand and squeezed it, her eyes big and full of concern, and pulled him into the walk-in pantry. Perhaps avoiding cameras.

“Are you okay?” she whispered.

“Of course,” he said, putting an arm around her shoulders. “It’s fine.”

She looked like she was about to cry. “It’s not fine! I’m so sorry, Ángel. This isn’t— I didn’t think he—”

He gave her a little reassuring shake. “You know he’s a good person. You told me yourself not to be afraid of him.”

“Yes, but— Ángel!” She was crying. “He’s kind, but you’re—you told me about the money—”

“Oh. You’re thinking it’s a financial arrangement.” It was a bit surprising how much that stung.

“No, but he’s—”

A monster. A python. “No, he isn’t,” said Ángel sharply. “And I’m not a hustler, Lily, okay? I don’t do anything I don’t want to do, and I don’t do anything for money.”