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One who rules the sky. A Fae with obsidian-blue hair and darkly hued lips. A monster who wields a javelin and plays a devious flute. One who rules the woodland. A Fae who sprouts antlers from a thicket of red waves, his limbs tapering to a pair of cloven hooves. A monster who wields a longbow and strums a lusty cello. One who rules the river. A Fae with an onyx mane and gold serpentine eyes so harsh they’ll blind you at close range. A monster who wields forked daggers and plucks a vengeful harp.
Because of my family’s specialty, this chap might have come here with an agenda but got sidetracked by my tits.
They catcall and heckle shit I can’t hear. They could have tussled with my sisters and tried to raid our acreage, with a bevy of valuable fauna living out back. To these men, I’m not as important. Behold, the power of a wounded ego.
Here in Middle Country? Faeries thrive.
Our village is a sitting duck, fronted by a whole bunch of cliffs, with a whole bunch of woodlands, with a whole bunch of waterways rushing through it. The Solitary Mountain. The Solitary Forest. The Solitary Deep.
“Intelligence is the ally of intention and the foe of lethargy.”
Man, this fucker’s got some nerve.
Read between the lines. Stay vigilant of twisted words and promises they won’t keep. And no matter what, be polite. Oh, for fuck’s sake. I’m gonna have trouble with that last one.
My family’s got a sturdy home built from logs and stones. It’s got nicks and chips, but it fights the hard weather fight, and its bones will last longer than I will.
If I could revisit the past, would I change it? My mind says yes. My heart says something else.
For your trespass, be our sacrifice—to surrender, to serve, and to satisfy. Under the vicious stars, three sisters must play three games. Mutinous Lark, your task is painfully simple. Don’t look down. Watch your step. Fear the wind. Follow the wind. Lose your path. Find your way. Welcome to The Solitary Mountain.
For instance, there was a time when humans thought the Fae aged and died slowly. Wrong. They’re fucking immortal.
Do I want to get myself killed? Possibly. My family’s had nearly a decade to wrestle manners out of me, and look where it got them.
“When I said that my tongue is valuable, what made you think I was referring to speech?”
“Tongues are good for so many things—so many places, with splayed, satin, soaked little parts.”
Your pluck will make it all the more rewarding to break you.” “It takes a lot to break me.” An imperious laugh vaults off Cerulean’s tongue. “You’re a human,” he says, as if that explains everything. “You bet, I am,” I say. “I’ve got frail bones, not to mention poor table manners. I’m not magically gifted, and I’ll die someday. Your kind think you’re so high and mighty. You think you’re the better species because you live forever, because you have strength and power you didn’t earn. Well, what you call powerful, I call lazy.
“Seems to me you’ve got the easy way out with glamour and spells and immortality. Maybe because you can’t handle less, like we can. Humans have shorter lifespans, with fewer reserves at our fingertips, and we toil for our lot, knowing it can be swiped away from one second to the next—our health, our homes, our skills, our faith, our dreams, our kin. We live amongst demons like you, yet we’re still standing, we’re still living, and we’re doing it fully. Sure, you might be the flashier ones. But are you the braver ones?”
We glower at each other. The Fae studies me, the blast of his gaze pushing me to step back. I’m cheeky, but I’m not a moron.
“Are you real or purely a nightmare?” He leans in, his warm breath coasting across my cheek. “By all means, touch me and find out.” “You mind if I use my whip to do it? Men like that.”
“You creatures aren’t very creative on your own, if it takes a lowly mortal to amuse you,” I say. “Keep wasting your energy like this, and one will think we have a lasting effect on Faeries. One might call it power over you.”
I’m not supposed to look down, but that’s exactly what I do, because I love heights, and I’m not giving that up. I won’t let anyone condition me to fear them.
Hating him is easier than empathizing with him.
“You display more sass than you’re wise to.” “Sounds like a compliment.”
imagine he’s not the brooding type, because amusement is healthier for the complexion.
think about scuffed ankle boots—the shoes of my family, because we wear the same ones, because we walk this world together, because we’re a band unbroken.
“I’ve got experience putting swine in their place, including the ones who got a yes from me. And I’ve got even more experience staying on top.”
“—I’ll not have my latest acquisition looking deplorable after two days. I like my toys shiny before I break them again.”
I’m proud, but I’m not too proud to accept a meal when I’m dehydrated and starving. Anybody who does is plain stupid.
“Granted, that’s more than one question, but I’m a Fae. And we’re so very, very greedy.”
Then I’m thinking, maybe nothing’s ever as distant as it seems. If moon rays can strike a Fae’s shoulder, and if a bird’s call can travel a great distance, and if a girl can find herself galloping from one world to the other, maybe that same girl can reach the top of a mountain.
“Why do you spurn me to viciousness as much as admiration? Why do your words insult yet invigorate me?”
“I don’t lament my privileges, if that’s what you’re suggesting. I quite favor being in charge rather than in a cage. There are many corrupt perks to be had.” “What a relief that you’ve made the best of it,” I gibe. “Otherwise, my heart would bleed for your sacrifice.”
I’d forgotten about that, but no way am I taking it off, because I feel safer and smarter with it on—two words that I normally don’t pay mind to. Safe is Cove. Smart is Juniper. Stupid is me.
But analyzing is a hobby for Juniper. And fretting is a hobby for Cove. Me? I’m the wild one who flies into the gale.
“I know what it’s like to be alone. I know what it’s like to be plucked off my feet and forced someplace that isn’t home. I know what it’s like to be frightened and lose hope.”
The good: I like this Fae boy. The bad: I really like this Fae boy. The ugly: I love this Fae boy.
Guess sorrow’s like this. One moment it’s gone, then it surges back with a jolt, kicking you right in the teeth.
Maybe that’s what hope is—a good cry before getting up again.
“That’s where I get my name from. Since I didn’t have one when Papa found me, he suggested that I name myself. So I chose Lark, to thank the bird for giving me hope.”
“I could take a lot more from your mouth. I could lap at every mutinous muscle contracting inside you.” “And I could bite your tongue,” I vow while arching against him, my tits skidding over his torso. “Or,” he proposes, sneaking his head under my jaw and skimming the rim with his lips, “you could hate-fuck me.”
“Your eyes are the pale gray of a storm. Your laughter is a swift current of air that I can’t stop hearing, no matter the hour. Your voice is mist, intangible yet penetrating, filtering into my dreams and raiding my slumber. Your name is an addiction, soaking itself into my tongue, nesting itself into my throat, so that every other word I speak threatens to slip, to utter that name.”
“Then show me your magic, and I’ll show you mine.”
The Fae grabs my face, his nails pinching my skin. His head swoops down, his lips seething against mine. “You fucking vice of a human.”
At last, the Fae ruler is powerless, and the mortal captive is priceless. That’s how it feels while he touches me.
Cerulean opens his mouth, likely to say something catastrophic. Instead, I grip the fine slopes of his cheeks and mutter, “You fucking vice of a Fae.”
“You exhaust me. I want to let you go, but I can’t. I want to punish you, but I can’t. I want to take your mouth again, but cursed it all, I can’t.
“She’s an infernal mortal, yet every time I’ve been near this woman, I’ve wanted to quarrel with her—” he nips my chin, “—confess secrets to her.” He moves to my lower lip, which he traces with his tongue, coaxing it to drop lower. His hoarse whisper blows across my lips. “I’ve wanted to kiss her roughly and fuck her sweetly.”
I’ve always assumed that Faeries don’t have hearts, not the way humans do. Not authentic ones, with the ability to care for beings other than themselves. But here he is, shattering that assumption.
“Or perhaps I would have, merely to tuck you in. It’s fortunate I remained unaware, or I might have grown obsessed and forsaken my duties. You have that power over me.”
