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He looks, for a moment, just as nervous as Folly. Clumsy without his arms for balance, Folly drops to one knee, then the other. Dewdrops soak through his trousers, and anticipation burns through his veins. This isn’t a trade. Folly doesn’t lose anything.
“Can you open your mouth and close your eyes?” The loss of Yarrow’s hand doesn’t break Folly’s immersion. He obeys, still floating inside himself, guided by Yarrow’s words, anchored by the rope around his wrists. Yarrow speaks above wet, quickening sounds. “You’re so fucking gorgeous. I can’t say that enough. I’ve never wanted someone more than you, Folly. I need to paint your pretty face with my come, so you know who you belong to. I need—fuck, Folly.”
“Is that my father’s shape?” Yarrow asks, in a voice so coldly calm it sounds like a stranger’s. Moriath tilts his head, and his horns catch the light. “I took the satyr’s shape a hundred years before I met your mother.”
“You weren’t unconscious?” “Pretending to be unconscious is very easy,” Folly informs him. “You just don’t do anything.”
“You saved my life. I’m in your—” Folly yanks his hands free to cover Yarrow’s mouth, bloodstains and all. “Gods, Yarrow! We just got out of a fucking curse! Don’t you dare jump straight into a life debt!” However fae handle life debts, it can’t be good.
“I humbly propose that Her Majesty will want to speak with me if you tell her this.” Folly’s chin lifts, all trace of nervousness gone. “I know why she gave me this eye.” Yarrow and Nevander both freeze, stunned. “I believe she will,” Nevander says, recovering his composure. “Follow me.”
“I need to panic for two more minutes,” Folly explains. “Then we can go in.”
Being scared is all right. He can do it anyway. Especially because Roland is about to be much more scared than Folly.
“Folly, be serious. That’s at least twice what I…” “What you swindled from me?” Folly asks. The silence is answer enough. “I don’t care about your malevolent math either. I just picked a number that feels good.”
“I love you,” Yarrow says, each word like silken rope around Folly’s wrists. Sweet and grasping and almost perfect. Folly just needs to tighten the knots.
She handled the news that Folly killed her former lover, who wasn’t actually a satyr, with surprising ease. “Oh, dear boy, that must have been so stressful for you!” she had said, handing him a mushroom cookie.
Despite his grumbling, he holds still for Crocus to kiss his cheek. “Yes, yes, dear. Besides, Hummingbird shouldn’t watch you ruin that pretty silk shirt of Folly’s.” “Mother,” Yarrow groans, as Hummingbird warns, “He’ll do no such thing!”
