Bound to the Wild Fae (Fortune Favors the Fae, #3)

by Tavia Lark

Yarrow can’t imagine meeting this little human without wanting to take care of him.

Perhaps Yarrow will get the chance to kill Roland someday.

Folly likes it beyond reason. He pushes instinctively, and Yarrow’s warm grasp doesn’t budge. Instead of entrapment or control, the pressure feels like protection. Yarrow holds him down to keep him close, and closeness means safety. Desire. Admiration.

“Stop thinking,” Yarrow murmurs between their lips. His thumbs caress the bones of Folly’s wrists. “Unless you’re thinking about me.”

“You’re a tease,” he manages, not quite a whine. “You’re impatient,” Yarrow counters, tossing a grin over his shoulder. “Understandable. I’m a magnificent talent, and if you’re thinking clearly, I need to work harder.”

He doesn’t know how to ignore a desire so beautifully requited.

But quiet confessions should be for Yarrow’s ears alone.

“I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather be bound to.” Yarrow catches his hand. “Nor can I,” he says, soft like a confession. “I’d like to keep you longer. But not like this.”

The mechanics are the same as bedding a fae. But fucking Folly feels different, because of who Folly is. There’s something so foreign about fucking a man he cares about.

“You’re ruining me, little human.”

“This is the only thing I’m good at.” “You’re good at plenty of things,” Yarrow says immediately—his voice low and filthy.

“You’re only seventy-seven, after all. You have your entire fae life ahead of you. I believe that you like me, but that’s not enough, is it? You’ll probably get tired of me after a decade or two, if not sooner, and you’ll be stuck⁠—” “Sweetheart,” Yarrow murmurs, and kisses Folly silent.

Folly deserves every ounce of care Yarrow can give him.

“I like knowing you’re exactly where I want you. Exactly where I put you. Because you want to be good for me. You want to belong to me.”

Folly’s relief at the order is almost embarrassing. How pathetic he must be, so afraid of fumbling with a belt buckle that he’d rather be bound and helpless. But Yarrow doesn’t think he’s pathetic. Yarrow calls Folly brilliant and clever and brave.

“Would you kneel for me?” This isn’t an order, and the question leaves Folly dazed. He almost resents Yarrow for turning this into a choice. For being so gods-damned considerate, asking while Folly’s back is turned, so Folly can have emotions without worrying what his face looks like.

Yarrow’s hand slides into Folly’s hair, and Folly’s mind goes quiet.

That’s all Folly can think about. The quiet inside is such a relief. Folly isn’t worried about disappointing anyone. He isn’t worried about lifemarks or saying goodbye or finding the shapestealer. He simply exists, treasured in Yarrow’s grasp.

“Can we pretend we’re still cursed?” Folly mumbles against Yarrow’s chest. “Just for a bit, so I can get used to this.” Yarrow nuzzles Folly’s hair. “I’ll take any excuse to hold you, little human.”