An Embrace of Citrus & Snow (Fallen for a Fae #1)

26. Bo

Chapter twenty-six

Bo

“This is just the start,” and depth-chilled hands gently laid him on the floor.

Few things rang the This Is Fucked Up bell quite as hard as someone leaving the door open for a stranger in what was supposed to be an abandoned and decrepit building and commenting that said stranger must be lost rather than an appropriate, “Get the fuck out.”

The guy looked a lot like that sketch, and fuck, Bo should’ve checked the date it was drawn. He watched Bo, all calm and smooth. Which would’ve been fine if not for the shake in his words and the way he clutched to the door frame for dear life.

“We don’t give tours.”

“Shhh,” crooned the sea as it had so many times before. “You fight, stubborn one, but you bring them up so well for me. They are there to be taken. No one will blame you.”

He curled around the scrap in his hand. Thought he did.

“Do fae get fucked up about iron?” And heat, glorious goddamn warmth pressed to his shoulder, his side. (He didn’t want to die, either. He really didn’t want to die. He liked his life, now.)

Liked his life, and he’d blame himself.

“Anyone else get a say in this, or is it just you?” Not snapping to protect a wound, this time. Genuine irritation bled through, bristling, and whether it was on behalf of —— or —— or his own fucked up prickliness over choices being made for him, he couldn’t even begin to fucking guess.

Maybe a little of all three. Definitely probably on behalf of all three.

And there were thorns, too. Vines and brambles and green things that didn’t belong in the ocean. They wrapped around —— and ——, kept them safe, pricked at prying hands on his memories and tender, mournful whispers .

“That’s good,” the voice murmured when his furious stubbornness started to lose its edge. The lap of waves under the sharp points: cold and comforting. “That’s good; that’s right. They hurt you. We’ll make them not. Just breathe, little human. Keep letting me in, just how you are.”

“Shove it,” his voice said, far away, as the plants closed in. Pierced the seafoam until the ocean let out a strangled gasp.

“Fucking tragic,” he repeated, his head shaking. He spread his fingers on —— wrist, warm and solid under his touch. Warm and solid, real as the spray of cool water and brush of summer grass, like curling up under the yawning old boards of a place tucked away. “C’mon. Come here.”

Memories tugged painfully at his skin, still fresh and forming. He wanted to keep them. They were his. Just because he was the only one they meant something to didn’t mean they were for the taking.

“If you don’t make it back before I finish my pancakes, I’m taking yours,” he warned. A lie. He would never fucking finish these pancakes. They were eternal. He turned again to watch —— and the man for a moment and, when satisfied, returned to face both his plate and ——.

“You’ll starve soon, human.” Coaxing, and he bristled. “Eat.”

But the fish nipped at memories, and the vines held tight to shield them, and he wouldn’t eat until the ocean receded. He clutched the scrap–the leaf–tighter and didn’t feel hungry. That was something.

“Just relax your throat and focus on my hands. I’ve got you. I won’t let you fall.”

Or at least, he’d not let —— fall alone.

Both of them wrapped up in the dark, surrounded by bones of history and long-lost lives. Freedom and bare feet, the first rush of cold water in a dry throat. Fucking parched.

He wanted to see if he could make —— shake (and shake and shake).

He hid behind the vines and hissed and kicked and spat, even when nothing of his moved but his mind and an echo of words, littered with profanity.

Cursing and, somewhere deeper and trembling with something not anger, not him , “Summer yields only if I will it.”

It was fucking stupid, how much it meant that —— called the sidhe out over his name. —— said he would, yeah, and he’d believed him. Just different, saying and doing. Actions being louder than words, —— strung wire-tight for reasons he understood and didn’t mind knowing.

Too long at sea, and suddenly, there was sand beneath his feet. Marble under his ass, behind his shoulders, and oak leaves spiraling from crown to collarbone like curls. Fiadh on her knees before him, before Bo, his fucking name was Bo. Fiadh kneeling and her expression twisted to one of sadness, regret, and disappointment.

“You play a dangerous game, human,” she said gently, as if he were the one with his brain-fingers up in her memories, whispering creepy shit. “We’ve been here three days. You tread the line of losing the whole of your mind.”

“You’re the one trying to peel my fucking brain,” Bo snapped. His stomach threatened to heave. “So you can fuck right off with that victim-blaming bullshit.”

“I’m trying to help you .”

“And doing a shit job of it.”

She flinched like Ever had. Bo set his jaw and hugged his knees to his chest, trying to calm his breathing, body aching and mind still trying to drag itself free of the ocean.

“Aren’t I supposed to be in my world?” he asked after a moment of silent watching. Mutual watching, her gaze reproachful and small. “Ever said I would be.”

Fiadh sighed. Soft, like the wind, beautiful still. Asshole. She stood, looking down at him.

“You will. You’ve been granted twelve hours to make the right choice, with food and drink and rest. When we return you to the mortal realm, you will forget.” Fiadh gestured to a tray of food near them that Bo, not hungry despite the fucking time loss, ignored. “Fight or not, we go regardless. You keep struggling, human Bo, and all your memories will be gone by the time we are done, no matter how careful I am. You yield, and you lose less than a week.”

Bo stared at her. There were words he could say. Plenty of them. Hateful, sharp fucking words she’d let roll off her back and not give a shit about because she was ‘helping’ him.

He wanted Ever. Even if Ever didn’t want him, looked at Bo and felt shame at their closeness, Bo just … wanted him. His skin itched with the lack of the kelpie, unsettled and ill-fitting. It hurt not to see his almost smile or sidelong glances. It felt wrong . No matter what the fuck he’d agreed to, Ever wouldn’t have said yes to this . He’d count this as fucking hurting.

But Fiadh didn’t. Bo wasn’t sure which mattered more in Faerie.

“He’s going to fucking kill you for this,” he said at last.

Fiadh smiled, all regret and bittersweet concern. “He’s the one that aimed true, hunter. Not me. I will return to this House in twelve hours.” She hesitated and added, gently, “ This is the best way to keep you safe, just as he bargained for. What I do is to help you. When it comes to those we love, there are always casualties. You’ll never need to flinch at his disregard again.”

She had seen his fucking thoughts through the … whatever the fuck the vines were.

Faerie . Fucking figured. At least it hadn’t changed its mind about Bo.

It didn’t matter, though. Fiadh left before Bo knew what to say.

(Nothing. There was nothing to say.)

Bo huddled in the corner for a good long while after Fiadh left, his eyes raw and red, his entire body shaking and angry and worn down. Where there’d been Ever before was a blank nothingness, a dull void as colorless as his expression had been when he’d left Bo here.

Ever didn’t know about this. Couldn’t know. Wouldn’t have made the deal if he knew it’d happen. He knew that Ever wouldn’t have, but still, that small, insidious murmur remained of “If there’s not blood, not physical damage, it’s not hurting, is it?”

“He wouldn’t,” Bo whispered, swallowing around his dry tongue, the first sound he’d heard in what seemed like hours. He stared at the spread of food, remembering Fiadh’s quiet coaxing to have some soup. Drink it.

Bo shuddered, gagging. The tray slid to him anyway; no soup to be found, only solids. So he reached for it, glaring at where the door once was despite every muscle aching from being curled up or on a hard stone floor for fuck knew how long, and ate.

Wasn’t like they were going to poison him or keep him locked in Faerie under a hospitality clause when Kesk and Veroni considered humans beneath that. They’d put Bo back in the mortal realm in, fuck, however many hours.

Alive. Safe. Like Ever wanted, fucking bargained for. For Bo to be put away, no say in the fucking matter, and left with only memories and oak leaves and vines, spiraling over his hair and arms and the wall where he touched it.

And fuck, he was going to lose those too. Fiadh would melt his brain, because to hell with her and her creepy fucking memory plucking. Better to sucker punch a selkie than forget the riverside willingly, the half-silent laughs and alien hats. He could throw at least one before she raked her claws through him.

He’d never been any good at hitting .

“Talia’s going to be furious ,” Bo said, flinching his eyes closed at the volume of it in the empty room. “Fuck. Fuck, I’m going to forget about her, and she’s going to be left with Nimai and…”

Easier to talk out loud about Talia than wrestle with Ever’s silence. His silence before. His silence now. And Bo was tired. He was so fucking tired.

He should sleep.

As if on fucking cue, a bed existed not too far from him. Not there, then there. Huge and white with a thick fur cover, marble stark. A door there. A bathroom if he were a betting man. More rugs–furs?–on the floor and light fixtures on the walls. The room didn’t grow dim or flare brighter, but it at least made the glow in the room make sense.

Bo stayed in the corner for another long beat. Waiting. When nothing else happened, and the tray was empty, he began the careful process of standing after too long. When he hissed in pain, the walls didn’t echo.

It was a bathroom. A full one, where he could brush his teeth and use the facilities and stand silently under a shower with perfect water pressure and heat and cry.

“I’ve betrayed you. Gravely.”

Quiet. Stoic, except for his color and the dying crown.

“You won’t be injured.”

Said like he wasn’t the one hurting Bo, flinching and moving back when Bo didn’t reassure or pet or speak gently.

Cruel. Both of them.

Even the towels were white. At least Bo’s clothes were clean again when he put them on, still with the oak leaf embroidery that had appeared when–

There was someone in the room.

Bo froze, tense. And shit, it said something pretty messed up about the last few days that he was relieved to see who it was. Not Fiadh, but the bronze-haired, winged sidhe with the weird goddamn voice, standing near the empty tray.

Just an average, run of the mill, asshole murderous fae.

Kesk sneered, his eyes cold as the marble around them, disgust fucking dripping from him. Bo relaxed, if only just, and eyed him warily .

“Still refusing our help, I see,” Kesk said, his voice magnetic and too much, focusing Bo’s attention on him even more than it had been. “You humans . Pathetic, self-destructive humans. You really don’t know how to get out of your own way.”

“I’m a little pissed over having a selkie invade my mind,” Bo retorted. This was easier too, sniping at Kesk instead of wallowing in his own sadness. Anger could be fuel, sometimes. Sadness just hurt. “And she’s fucking creepy. So yeah, I’m having a little trouble not being petty as hell about it.”

“She’s useful.” Kesk gestured a chair into existence, not unlike the throne he’d had his ass in when Bo’d first seen him. “But I must agree, skin shifters are a pathetic bunch. Leaving bits of themselves lying around. Never committing fully to their nature or loyalties.”

“That wasn’t me making a judgment call on a whole class of fae.” Bo hesitated, then slowly edged to lean on the wall by the bed. Kesk could sit. Bo would stay away from him, and they could all be happy with that.

Kesk studied him, condescending but without the bug-in-my-food disgust from before. He let the moment stretch. Then, almost as if he were actually curious, Kesk said, “You humans never know what’s best for you. What possible good could it do you, holding on to those memories?”

“They’re mine .” Like a child, clutching onto his safety toy. Bo shoved his hands into his pockets, jaw set. “Besides, what possible good does it do you for them to be taken? Not like it’ll destroy the bond.”

“What do I care for the state of your bond?” Kesk scoffed, settling comfortably in his chair. “My concern is for my friend’s happiness. And the debt he’s willing to pay in.”

“Then go find him someone he finds ‘suitable’ for a bond instead of trying to change Ever, maybe. How’s that for a fucking thought?”

Kesk shrugged, the action as fluid and beautiful as his voice was captivating. “The heart wants what the heart wants, no matter how ill advised. In truth, I had some doubts about how effective his plan to get his pony back would be. Three years? That’s not much time.”

And again, Kesk looked at him. The full weight of his attention itched, a film on Bo’s skin with no more water to scrub with.

Dried grass and hollow silence, feelings he could barely reach. And nothing of the river.

Bo glared back. He’d never been good with silence. “Past tense?”

“Oh, yes.” Kesk smiled, cruel and sharp. “You were kind enough to ruin the man, first. Such a fragile creature, our Everil. But you must have known that.”

“Fuck you. Ever’s stronger than any of you think. ”

“He may have been, once. But I just saw him. He was here, and isn’t that funny? Why, he might have walked past this very room. And you didn’t even feel him.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m a fae. We don’t lie. I won’t even prevaricate.” Kesk met Bo’s eyes with uncomfortable directness, his voice making it impossible to look away. “Everil was here on my lands with Nimai. And I have never seen him so broken. Not even after the scandal with his last pet.”

Bo reached for that awareness of Ever even as they spoke, deliberate now, a tentative awareness through his frustration and hurt. The volume didn’t change. Muted. Quiet. Bo swallowed around a new lump in his throat.

“The fuck are you talking about?” It took effort to keep his voice steady and sharp. Stupid to ask. Stupid to even talk to him. Stupid to give him anything and Bo did anyway. “What do you mean, ‘broken.’ ”

“Are you unfamiliar with the term?” Kesk asked, all cultured condescension. “Broken. Shattered. Crushed. What happens when a man who has just tied himself to the person he’s spent a century avoiding is punished for that action by the one he sought to protect.”

“That wasn’t…” punishment . Except it was. He’d seen Ever flinch, gone from still to stepping back and shaking. “He’d already agreed.”

“True. Though if you’d left him with any hope of your affection, perhaps he’d have the will to fight. Instead, he’s … docile. Really, Nimai should send you a thank you note.”

“There wasn’t a fight. He made me into the reason why he went back.” Bo’s voice cracked.

“This is all I have.” Shuddering, soft words on a breath. “You’re worth everything.”

“Not ‘a fight.’ Simply ‘fight.’ ” Kesk’s voice rang with confidence. “See, that’s always been the problem with Everil. Nimai could never break him. Not entirely. But now?”

Kesk held out a perfect, graceful hand, palm up, fingers outstretched. A shimmering image in cold white magic, of Ever in a suit, gray against a stark backdrop of ice. Eyes downcast, arm-in-arm with a beaming Nimai, the remnants of a holly crown drifting listlessly down when he moved.

In it, Nimai said something with a smile. Ever nodded, then walked away obediently.

Docile.

Not even when stiff and taciturn at Brookhaven had Ever acted like a beaten down puppet, tugged about on strings. Not once so shattered, even while telling his childhood friend she was Houseless.

“I…”

“Impressive trick, getting him besotted with you, playing the game of caring,” Kesk said, each word a fresh cut. The image shifted to Bo with his arm around Ever’s waist, fire in his eyes, and Ever leaning into the touch. “Telling him that you wanted to help him. And to finish it as you did? To wait until he felt safe with you, until he sacrificed for you, and then dig the knife in?“ Another change, a higher view, Ever’s head down, flinching, Bo furious and tearful, mouth moving soundlessly. “Bravo.”

Bo heard himself make a soft noise. Felt the bed under him, soft and giving. Stared at Ever until Kesk’s fist closed, then stared at the sidhe instead. “This isn’t– You’re twisting it.”

“No. I’m not.” Kesk smiled and lifted his hands for a slow, dramatic clap of approval. “I suppose that’s what you’re so eager to remember for the next four hours. After all, how many opportunities in life do we have to truly ruin someone?”

“It wasn’t a trick,” Bo whispered, his voice cracking again.

“No? That was your version of affection? Berating your frightened bond after he sold himself to save you?” Kesk laughed, hooks in it and lulling and beautiful and cruel. “Say what you will about the fae, but even at her most cross, Veroni wouldn’t subject me to that kind of ruthless handling.”

“I’m not going to talk to you anymore,” Bo managed to say, loud enough to be almost normal. Through the bond, nothing but echoes and echoes and echoes. His fault. “Be helpful and kindly fuck off.”

Kesk rose, all fluid elegance, the chair disappearing even as the door formed.

“My best wishes to your next lover.”

With that, he turned and walked out, the door disappearing behind him.

Bo stared at the wall where the door wasn’t, his breath thin and fast. He tried to remember the river, Ever with his almost laugh, leaning into his touch, Bo’s head to his shoulder on the porch where Ever imagined him with a crown of oak, Ever’s hair spilling over Bo’s chest when he tipped his head back at Bo’s ask. Talia and her aliens and grizzled old men and scowling round face over her knees, more hoodie than kid.

Those were the memories he tried to hold to, reach for, cling to like he’d clutched the oak leaf in the ocean.

Instead, he remembered Ever pale and flinching, eyes on the ground as he embraced the whip Bo lifted again and again, both of them lost in their own hurt. Talia, worried, leaving because they promised her they’d be fine, and Bo said he’d see her soon .

He would never see her again. If they met on the street, he wouldn’t fucking know her.

And Ever…

Bo’d left him betrayed. As alone as Bo was, rigid and hurting because Bo was hurt.

If Ever had wanted Bo in three years time, he didn’t anymore. Not after that. He’d not come for Bo here or in the future. Ever ran from pain. No reason to seek Bo out, broken or not.

Path of least fucking resistance . Ever hadn’t said he wanted to come back to Bo.

Hard to blame him. Why would he want the coarse, crass human he always stepped back from or ahead of when around others? Even now, muted as it was, Bo could feel it. That self hatred that had radiated from Everil anytime someone saw them together.

His back met cold stone. The corner again. He didn’t remember moving. He slid down, sitting with his burning eyes closed. The memory of Ever flinching repeated again and again and again, except for when the memory of that gray, hollow face took over, turning away, obedient. Docile.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to no one. He had ruined it. Broken Ever, who he’d only wanted to build up. And Bo, he’d lose all memory, not even care he hurt his kelpie, his Ever, and Ever would never know Bo wished he could make it better.

No point in fighting.

Ivy crept up his arms and legs, curled over his neck when Bo pressed his eyes to his upturned knees, shaking. He couldn’t stop shaking , oak leaves rustling from his hair and falling, slow, to the floor, only the acorn solid in his shirt pocket. The room dimmed and Bo, shattered, heard that same thin whimper come from him that he’d heard so many times in the last few days.

“I yield,” more hitched hurt than words, all fractures and no joy. No reason to fight. No one to want him to. And he was so tired of fighting and not being fought for. Of building and rebuilding himself.

Unwanted. Small. Alone. Pathetic. Weak.

Cruel.

Easy, then, to give up. To be numb and silent and wait, body rocking with silent, dry sobs.

I yield.