“Fae are not like Oreans,” Slade explains as he walks over to the fireplace and crouches down in front of it. My eyes drop to his powerful thighs, and I watch as he meticulously layers the grate with kindling from the neat woodpile before he lights it with a piece of flint. Sparks come to life, and he leans in closer, blowing softly until flames lick up the wood. I don’t know why I find that sexy, but I do.
