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

by Tavia Lark

unless something powerful binds them to their new home.

On that rarest of magics—confidence.

He should look drab, but against the dark soil and gray grasses of the realm between, he’s vibrantly alive.

He’s been running since his eye changed. He’s just never been caught before.

Folly barely breathes beneath the touch. Terror. Tenderness. Both. “I’m sorry.”

Roland may be awful, but at least he thinks of Folly as a person. Not just a pet human.

Which means it’s not fae magic, but something Folly can’t see. Perhaps something inherent to the living tree itself.

He may be attractive and interesting and eligible, with soft limbs that beg to be bound in silk, but he’s still human and fragile.

arberos

Arbor - tree

Like Folly isn’t inconvenient and weird, with his strange eye and his even stranger fear of normal conversations.

Evening clings to Folly’s shoulders like a silken cloak, and both eyes, bright and dark, are captivating. Yarrow would want this…

Everything has a price. Anything can be traded away. Some choices are a pebble in a pond. The water ripples, then stills. Other choices are an acorn thrown into a river. The water rushes on, ever-changing and unchanged, as the acorn tumbles into the mud.

That would beggar the pleasure of wondering, though.

Folly’s sadness and frustration weave together like a curse, heavy in the night air. Yarrow can’t imagine meeting this little human without wanting to take care of him.

There’s something strangely nice about having someone worry over him.

Or any sort of foolish creature led around by the collar and leash of his own desperation. He’s an anxious mess of a person, but he is a person.

he looks good in expensive things.

Moriath’s words catch in Folly’s mind, like silk caught on branches. Seeing the guise of the glamour, not just the truth.

Almost as wondrous as the look in Folly’s eyes, when he’s so delighted he forgets to be afraid.

Maybe Yarrow was wrong. Abstinence might kill him after all.

The unexpected sense of security, that someone’s watching out for Folly.

Nothing more than a guiding touch on his shoulder. No pressure. Casual. Confident. Safe. Folly isn’t used to people being safe.

Folly’s used to being pushed towards things he hates. Not things he wants, with irrational, undeniable yearning.

But he has a flashy robe and an audience, and he isn’t a freak. He’s a performer.

his human

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.

“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.”

“Easy isn’t always right,”

Folly’s sharing this comfortable bed with the most fascinating man he’s ever met. He can lie again, but he’d like to tell a few truths instead.

This moment will stand out, though: Yarrow’s fingertips above his heart, guiding him down, until Folly lies flat on the cloudlike mattress.

He needs the impossible, something Yarrow can’t give him: space, alone, a moment to breathe.

Wishes he could process the confusion of desire and claustrophobia. But every night when Folly crawls into bed, he fears suffocation.

He doesn’t know how to ignore a desire so beautifully requited. The problem is that Folly is sad, scared.

Nobody this handsome and precious wants to talk with Yarrow just for the sake of talking, instead of a prelude to fucking the half-satyr wild fae.

The queen can take people’s memories.”

Folly is missing a memory

Become fully part of something, instead of neither one thing nor the other, never fully fitting in.

He wishes he could fill them with only joy, no worry.

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.

“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.”

Belief isn’t a matter of truth. Whether or not Folly is beautiful is far less important than the floral swing swaying across the crowd.

But fleeting as this is—tonight is important to me.” He leans in for a kiss. “You’re important to me.”

You’re brilliant and brave, and you admit when you’re afraid. Sometimes I wish I could do that.”

There’s something so foreign about fucking a man he cares about.

But being polite wasn’t worth much, when she wouldn’t look at him without his eyepatch.

Mom made the deal

Nothing would please him more than claiming this human in a binding that doesn’t hurt.

How foolish can a lifemark be, when Yarrow’s every touch is already branded into Folly’s soul?

It’s gut-wrenching to recognize a ghost.

“I took the satyr’s shape a hundred years before I met your mother.”

The same year Yarrow first visited the summer court, and the queen who collects memories. “Haelwen,” Yarrow whispers.

“Oh, dear boy, that must have been so stressful for you!”