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“Where does the water come from?” Folly asks. “The ceiling?” Yarrow answers, feeling strangely inadequate. He needs to find more answers for Folly. “I don’t know. I’m neither an enchanter nor a plumber.”
Last night, Yarrow said he wanted to fuck Folly. But he doesn’t act like it. Not the way Folly’s used to getting interest. There’s been no leering or wandering hands. Nothing more than a guiding touch on his shoulder. No pressure. Casual. Confident. Safe. Folly isn’t used to people being safe.
“How long do these usually last?” “Usually not that long. Just, either way, we can fix it.” Worst case scenario, Crocus is the best herbalist Yarrow knows. She’ll help for the low, low price of questioning all of Yarrow’s recent life choices. Hopefully it won’t come to that.
“You keep rescuing me,” Folly says, like it’s a personal failing. “I’m dragging you down. I’m useless.” He believes that. Yarrow exhales, feeling like he’s been punched. Folly’s still under that truth potion. Which would be better termed an honesty potion, because Folly believing something with his entire messed-up heart doesn’t make it true.
“Look, I’m no good at talking about feelings. I do sex, not relationships, and I’ll stick around for breakfast if I’m invited, but that’s it. But this? You?” Yarrow pokes Folly’s knee again. “I need you to know you’re amazing. I was entranced tonight, watching you light up the party. I’ve been entranced since you tried to stab me in Elsewhere. You’re smart and special, and that’s a good thing.”
“I like when you say nice things to me,” Folly says quickly. Like he’s racing against his own doubts. “And I like when you hold my wrist.” Suddenly, twenty feet aren’t enough. Yarrow wants Folly tethered within ten feet of him. Five. Close and constant enough that Yarrow can take his time unraveling every hint of nervous desire.
“Do you like this, little human?” 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.
He doesn’t know how to ignore a desire so beautifully requited.
But information has a price too.” “You’ve told me plenty of information for free.” Thin fingers tap the railing, before Folly rests his elbows too. “You’ve told me about the summer queen and the traveling inn and how you bargain with trees.” A foot and four inches of space shivers between them. Shifting his weight, Yarrow lands an inch closer. “Not for free. I tell you things, and in return I get the pleasure of telling you.”
“Would you want to see me again?” he asks in a small voice. “If you’d let me.” Yarrow touches Folly’s chin. Tilts his face up. He can’t resist turning those beautiful, mismatched eyes into the light. He wishes he could fill them with only joy, no worry. “I’m not done kissing you senseless.”
He’s only known Yarrow for a week, and all they’ve done is kiss. What if Yarrow tires of him after they have sex? What if Folly’s performance disappoints? Or they could have lifestyle differences. Like if Yarrow invites people over too often. Or plays the tambourine late at night. Or secretly eats people.
Yarrow’s presence is distracting. When Folly had asked what Yarrow intended to wear to the party, Yarrow had simply winked—then stripped off his shirt.
“Do humans never fuck at parties?” “Not the parties I’ve been to.” Folly’s face heats. “People usually at least find a dirty alleyway.” Yarrow tucks a lock of hair behind Folly’s ear. He leans close to murmur, “That sounds dreadful. You’re far too gorgeous for a dirty alleyway. I’d rather fuck you in a meadow of summerstars, or the shallows of the Pyran, or that floral swing over there. Even the flowers would dim against your beauty.”
“You’ve had too much to drink. I’m not gorgeous.” “One of us only speaks the truth, and one of us lies.” Yarrow retrieves the tankard. “Who should we believe?”
Yarrow, strong and gorgeous at his side. So interested in Folly that Folly feels he may be worth that interest after all. “Here you go,” Yarrow says. And Folly surrenders to instinct. He takes the tankard, then reaches to grab Yarrow by one gleaming horn. The ridges are smooth and warm beneath his palm as he pulls Yarrow down. Yarrow’s kiss is even warmer. “Thanks,” Folly murmurs against Yarrow’s lips. Then releases him.
Yarrow halts, so quickly his boots squeak against the marble. A familiar green door waits in welcome. “This is our room,” Yarrow says, then hedges, “Hopefully it’s our room.” It’s their room.
“I want to…” Folly lifts his chin, baring his throat in surrender. “What do you want to do?” Yarrow leans down. His hair spills over Folly’s shoulder, and his words hook into Folly’s soul. “I want to tie you up and fuck you for hours.”
“Let’s start with one hour,” Folly says, because he’s reckless. Not stupid. “Clever little human,” Yarrow purrs. “I can work with that.”
“You can grab my horns for balance,” Yarrow says helpfully. “Is that all right?” Folly asks. “Sorry, I should have asked first when I grabbed them at—” “Grab my horns, little human.”
“Lie back and stretch your arms towards the headboard.” “Have you done this before?” Folly asks as he complies. His posture knocks the breath from Yarrow’s lungs. “I’ve tied people up before,” Yarrow says, kneeling beside Folly. “Never anyone I liked this much.”
“I know you’ll return to your home. I know we won’t be bound together. But fleeting as this is—tonight is important to me.” He leans in for a kiss. “You’re important to me.”
Folly’s gaze drops to Yarrow’s cock. He blinks, assessing, then licks his lips. “Do you have oil?” “Never leave home without it,” Yarrow says, reaching out.
There’s something so foreign about fucking a man he cares about.
“You’re ruining me, little human.” Folly stretches out like a gift. “What does that mean?” Yarrow fucks deep into him. “It means I’m already dreaming of the next time I get to fuck you.”
“Can you come like this?” Yarrow pants. “Just from my cock, without me even touching you?” Folly whines.
The little human is bonelessly relaxed against him. His bound wrists press against Yarrow’s chest. Exactly where he ought to be. * * * When they wake, the binding has diminished to thirteen feet.
“Her Majesty has forbidden me from helping the wild fae,” Nevander says, laying an array of items on a stone table. “She said nothing about helping the 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. Nevander clears his throat.
“Once you answer his question, you won’t be able to give that answer to anyone else who asks.” Yarrow glares across the table. “Like if he asked your name, you wouldn’t be able to tell anyone else your name for the rest of your life.” Huh. Maybe some people would hate that, but those people probably aren’t named Philostrate.
“I might agree,” Folly says carefully. “But we need to limit the restrictions. I won’t tell any fae the name of my village. And Yarrow standing here while I tell you doesn’t count.” Nevander considers him for a moment. He doesn’t look happy, but he says, “That is acceptable.” “You can limit the restrictions?” Yarrow asks. “This human is better at bargaining than you are,” Nevander says.
Praying he won’t get trapped inside the mirror, or summon a hungry monster, or just find an unexpected pimple right on the tip of his nose— Folly opens the golden case.
Crossing Elsewhere requires powerful magic, or talismans from a skilled enchanter. But Yarrow managed without a talisman when he brought Folly through. He’d simply bargained, like Elsewhere was just another tree or river. He hadn’t really thought about how strange that was. At the time, he’d had other concerns, starting and ending with the cursed, unconscious human in his arms. That same human is much more helpful while conscious.
Are you there, Elsewhere? I’d like to barter passage. There’s a breath of silence. Then the air shimmers, and pressure like an oncoming storm cools around them, and Yarrow has his answer. “Oh, that’s very magic,” Folly whispers.
Crocus stands in the doorway, wearing a stained apron and heavy gloves over her pink gingham dress. Her long white hair piles in a messy bun, threatening to topple as she tilts her head. “Are you coming in or what?” Crocus demands, stripping off the gloves. “If you stand out there for too long, you’ll grow mushrooms for toes.” Relief crashes into Yarrow, followed swiftly by primal dread. His mother is fine—and Yarrow is inadvertently visiting.
“Do you think she’s the shapestealer?” Folly whispers. “Nobody else says the thing about mushrooms for toes,” Yarrow whispers back. “If he can imitate her that well, I’ll just give up and call him Mother.”
“Fae can’t lie, so was she serious about us growing mushrooms for toes?” Folly asks. “She was exaggerating the timescale,” Yarrow explains. “If we stood here for a year, we would end up growing mushrooms, probably.”
“I’m about to meet your mother,” Folly says faintly. “I’m so sorry,” Yarrow says, and steers Folly towards the cottage.
“This is Folly. He’s a fortuneteller by trade from the human realm. Folly, this is Crocus. She’s a crazy mushroom farmer, and she’s my mother.” “I’m not crazy!” Crocus protests. “The mushrooms are crazy.”
“I’m as much use as teats on a fish at court.”
“Folly, dear human, would you mind waiting outside while I talk with my son?” “Um, I can’t. Ma’am,” Folly stammers. Crocus’s eyes narrow. “What do you mean?” “The shapestealer cursed us.”
“I have to stay next to Yarrow. I guess I could stand on one side of the door, if he stayed close on the other side. That makes me nervous, though, not being able to keep an eye on him, because what if we lost track of where we were on either side of the door? Then we would trigger the curse, and—” “Oh, dear,” Crocus says mildly. “I’ll make tea.”
“Yarrow has never brought home such a nice boy before.” Folly pauses again, his teacup half an inch closer to his lips. “Crocus,” Yarrow complains. “I’ve never brought home any boys.” “My point stands,” Crocus says loftily.
“I know my son prefers to fuck them and leave them,” Crocus continues, forcing Folly to choke on his second sip. “Like mother, like son.” Yarrow chokes at that too. “But unlike me, I’ve always thought he’d do better with companionship.”
“You’re not bothered that I’m human?” Crocus shrugs. “I don’t shock easy. I fucked a kelpie once.”
“I’m not familiar with human years.” “He’s an adult,” Yarrow says, muffled and aggrieved.
“Right, this has to be Moriath. ‘I will wait in Cerulean Glade for the next week. Bring me the fae-touched human, and I’ll lift the binding. Elsewise, I’ll collect him myself, and break the binding with your blood.’ Rather dramatic fellow.”
“I don’t mean I want a lifemark or something,” Folly says quickly. “I mean, I’d at least want to try this for a year before trapping you with me forever. But tomorrow…” Yarrow adjusts the flower in Folly’s hair, then caresses his cheek. “Tomorrow is too soon.” Folly nods against Yarrow’s palm. His lashes lower. “We keep saying we’ll figure it out later, but we’re running out of later.”
“Something powerful has to bind you here, whether that’s a curse like ours or stealing food from under someone’s roof. Or a trade, leaving something in your home realm to replace you.” Folly listens intently. “Like Tansy.” “Tansy can stay because the queen replaced him with her own son.” Yarrow sighs. “Unfortunately, I lack offspring to trade for you.”
“Neither of us is ready for a lifemark.” Yarrow kisses Folly’s cheek, then pulls away. “But I’m not ready to say goodbye to you either.
“Breathe,” Yarrow says, with a fond laugh. He kneads Folly’s ass. “Can I tie you up again?” Gods, Yarrow’s hands are so big, massaging into Folly’s muscles. “Yes. Um. I liked that.”
