“Did you try to touch someone?”

“I tried to touch everyone,” Oberon admitted. “Oh, it took me a long time to learn not to try to touch people. But by that point everyone was horrified by me. They told me I was too much. They told me that I was unacceptable. And they were right, of course.”

“They were wrong,” whispered Ángel.

“Someone shot me. I almost bled to death. They told me it was partly my fault, for being so . . . so elfin. So fae. So they made me cut my hair, and they bought me clothes.”

“Oh my God.” Ángel pulled back, staring into Oberon’s still face. “The black clothes, the short hair—that comes from the DOR?”

“They thought if I looked more like a man, I’d be safer. And they would be safer, the ones who have to protect me. So I try to look like a man. But it doesn’t work.”

Ángel cupped Oberon’s face in his hands, thumbs stroking his high cheekbones. Oberon’s face was as still and remote and beautiful as the moon, but at some point Ángel had stopped seeing it like that, frightening and perfect and strange. Maybe it was the magic, tingling in his palms as he caressed Oberon’s smooth cheeks, his jaw, tunneled his fingertips into Oberon’s soft white-gold hair.

“You’re in the closet. You’re pretending to be someone you’re not to keep safe. I don’t know why I never realized that before.”

“I’m not as brave as you.”

“No,” Ángel said, “no, you’re a thousand times braver than me. But I wonder if they were wrong. I wonder if they shouldn’t have defied everyone and showed the world the real you.”

“I don’t know,” said Oberon. “It’s hard, when people hate you.”

Ángel nodded. He knew that.

“They thought people would hate me less if I pretended. You’re the only one who’s ever thought they’d hate me less if they really knew me.”

He thought of Oberon’s room—the thick carpets on the floor, the piles of down duvets on the bed. “You like soft things against your skin,” he guessed, tugging at the crisp collar of Oberon’s shirt. “Not this. You like silk and cashmere. You have a blue silky robe that you never wear.”

“You looked at my things.”

Ángel’s hands thrilled with magic. Oberon smelled peppery, and his voice had gone hot. Oberon was delighted that Ángel had looked at his things.

“Bring your soft blankets to my room,” whispered Ángel. “Wear your pretty robe when you’re alone with me. When it’s just us, when no one can see you but me, you can be yourself.”

“I can.” Oberon was whispering too. The signs of his arousal bloomed on the white skin of his throat, and the air hummed with sex. “Oh, Ángel. How I need you.”