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But that monster had saved my life, twice.
Upon our arrival, just outside his dark bedchambers, he had not asked for what I was not yet willing to give. He had not once slipped into my bedroom uninvited or demanded my presence in his.
I was provided for–my room was comfortable, the meals were extravagant, new clothing filled my wardrobe, and his staff looked after me with care. He had allowed me to roam his island freely.
None of this made him a hero, but it also meant he wasn’t a monster. No matter how much I wanted him to be. If he were, it would be simpler. I could truly hate him. But the Fae King was… complex.
And so were my feelings.
Had he really given me his Book of Iron because he cared? Is that why he had entrusted me with its wealth of generational secrets?
Someone cleared their throat behind me. I jumped and turned to see Harry. "You scared me!" I said, placing my hand over my heart.
He grinned. "Go on. He won’t bite."
I should have done as he said, but my head and heart were still too full of uncertainties. "Why? Why am I here?"
His easy smile faltered. "That’s a question you will have to ask Forrest. Not me." I bit my lip. "You’re right, of course." I paused, then admitted, "But I feel stupid."
"You’re not stupid. Talk to him. Get to know him. You might find he’s not so bad when you get past the surface."
I stood there for another moment, pondering his words. Did I want to get to know the Fae King? I wasn’t sure. Yet, I knew I couldn’t continue living like this, tiptoeing around our rooms and waiting for his summons. I needed to know what I was to him. Did he truly intend to marry me, or was I some sort of pet?
"Thanks, Harry," I said.
He patted me awkwardly on the shoulder. "Go on."
I gathered my courage and turned the door knob.
Forrest must have heard me enter with those large, pointed ears, but he didn’t look up. He was sitting in a large leather wingback chair, thumbing through an ancient text. The binding appeared to be unraveling, and a page or two appeared close to falling on the floor.
In front of him was a small table with tea service and a second wingback chair.
I walked closer and said, "Good evening."
He made a sound in the back of this throat that indicated he was not having a good evening. Then gestured for me to sit. "Sit down. We have much to discuss."
"Yes, we do," I said, frowning.
"Would you care for tea?" he offered in a stilted formal tone, gesturing to the tray in front of us.
When I was nervous, I found it always helpful to have a cup of tea nearby. It stopped me from fiddling with my gown or hair. Something my governess had despised. "You can’t simply wear your heart on your sleeve. You are a princess," she had admonished.
So, I accepted his offer and moved to pour myself a cup.
To my surprise, he stopped me. "Please, allow me," he said.
I watched as he lifted the teapot with care, his elegant fingers caressing the fragile porcelain. He poured the amber liquid into a small tea cup shaped like a lotus. "How do you take your tea?" he asked.
"Um, just honey please."
Wordlessly, he obliged, swirling a small spoon of honey.
I was bewildered by his sudden show of polite attentiveness. Other than servants, no man had ever poured me a cup of tea. The act of service felt strangely intimate.
He returned the cup to its saucer beside me.
I sipped in a thick silence that neither of us dared to break. Finally, I couldn’t take it any longer. A dam burst within me, and I blurted out, "I want to know why I’m here."
