Fey Regency (Fey Lords #3)

17. Chapter 17

Chapter seventeen

I ’m alone. I don’t even have to open my eyes to know that. I can feel it in my soul, and it hurts. There is no need to look and check, but I do it anyway, and it confirms everything. Tristan has left. My borrowed bed is empty.

I flop onto my back and sigh heavily. Morning light is peeking around the heavy curtains. My stomach rumbles. It is definitely a new day. Probably time to get up. I may have been abandoned, but I feel a whole lot better. No more headache. No more burning up. Whatever Tristan did to me, it did the trick.

A blush heats my cheeks, but since there is no one here to see it, there is no point in trying to fight it. I can blush away in peace, as I recall exactly what Tristan did to me. Well, physically, at least. The magic stuff is still beyond my comprehension. But I understand handjobs and orgasms well enough. And they were lovely.

I rub my eyes and try to gather my thoughts. Why were the orgasms lovely? Why was I not scared? Last time, Tristan pushed me too far and left me so shaken that strangers staged an intervention and I was given a castle.

Has my body forgotten? Has my mind forgiven? Was there even anything to forgive, because I’ve pretty much already concluded that the whole thing was rather cathartic and I was acting zombie-like because I don’t know who I am without all the pain and angst I’ve been bottling up for my entire life.

Oh for fuck’s sake. If I lie here until I’ve figured everything out, I’ll never move again. I might as well get cleaned up and go in search of some breakfast.

I heave myself out of the giant bed and walk over to my very own bathroom. Well, my very own while I’m staying here, however long that may be. It is still dead fancy. I have never had my very own bathroom before, temporary or not.

The black marble and gold fittings greet me. Toilet, basin, roll top bath, and enormous walk-in shower. Before I was taken prisoner by the fey, I would have sworn that this was the poshest washroom in existence, but now I’ve seen, and used, Tristan’s decadent, sunken-bath-the-size-of-a-small-pool set up, this all seems rather, ‘Meh’.

Even so, I’m not one to turn my nose up at clean, hot water. And since I’m already naked, there is no need to hesitate before stepping under the glorious shower. The Tropical Rainforest setting pours down on me and I groan in delight.

I stay in the shower until I’m almost pruny. Then I dry myself with super fluffy towels and try not to recall Tristan’s vigorous drying technique. Or the way he called me an angry kitten the first time he subjected me to his ministrations.

As I step back into the bedroom, wrapped in a towel, I find it full of daylight. The curtains have been opened and one of Selwyn’s red-hatted servants is waiting to help me dress. I watch him carefully as he works. I’m pretty sure I’ve nearly got the hang of it and should be able to manage it by myself soon.

After the servant leaves, I admire myself in the full length mirror and swish the silks around a little. They do look good on me, I must admit. Being a guy, I never paid much attention to my waist before. Human clothes don’t show off the male waist, which is a shame because this shit looks great.

The colour suits me too. It is not emerald green, but that’s the extent of my vocabulary on shades of green. No idea what this is called. I do know it is pretty. It seems to be the exact shade of my eyes.

I freeze and stare at my reflection. If Selwyn picked these out, that is a bit ick. Actually, it is a lot ick, and I don’t like it at all. Hopefully, it was simply one of the red hat dudes who has a good eye for this sort of thing.

I shake my head and go in search of breakfast. I’m starving. I don’t think I ate at all while I was sick, or ripe, or whatever the hell it is called.

As I step out into the breakfast room, my heart starts beating erratically. Then my mind registers what it is seeing.

Tristan. Tristan standing in the middle of the room, holding a bouquet of pink oleander flowers. His hair is all glossy and very neatly done up, and his scarlet robes are even fancier than usual. I think this is the fey equivalent of a suit and tie.

“Hi,” I squeak.

I cannot read his expression at all, and it is making me very nervous. He flashes me a warm smile and hands me the flowers. I take them very gingerly, carefully holding only the paper that the stems are wrapped in. Though, given the casual way Tristan was holding them, maybe they aren’t all that poisonous to fey. But I’m plenty human, so I’m not going to risk it.

“Would you like to join me for dinner?” Tristan says.

“Like a date?” I blurt in surprise before I can stop myself.

Tristan nods and gives me a wolfish grin. “Yes, a date.”

I swallow dryly while my stomach fills with butterflies. Do fey always do everything backwards? Tristan moved me in with him, then we had sex. Now he wants to go on a date.

My cheeks burn as I helpfully recall that we haven’t had sex , sex. But that is a mere technicality. The point is, having a date now is absurd.

“I’d love to!” I hear myself gush.

Tristan grins, and my heart joins my stomach in trying to kill me. Holy stars. I really am my own worst enemy. I don’t need a nemesis. I’m quite capable of destroying my life all by myself.

Oh well, at least I am good at something.

H oly smokes, Wagyu beef is every bit amazing as every influencer has ever claimed. I moan in delight and then look up at Tristan in horror. He grins at me. A big smile that lights up his whole face. It is so dazzling I swear the rays are going to blaze across the table and give me sunburn.

Hurriedly, I snatch my gaze away and look out of the window. London at night stretches out before me. The view is spectacular. Just as one would expect from an exclusive restaurant at the very top floor of The Shard.

I shove some more Wagyu in my face and try not to think about the restaurant being empty. I’m sure it is very usual for a famous restaurant at the top of London’s tallest building to be empty on a Saturday night. It is totally fine. And all the staff are being super attentive because it is their job to be.

I continue to ignore Tristan and concentrate on the delicious food instead. He appears content to let me eat. It is probably daft because I’m sure we should be talking and being all grown-up and mature and shit. Especially as we really didn’t talk at all last night. But this suits me just fine.

He can climb into bed with me, play with my cock and make me cum and then take me to fancy restaurants all he wants. Talking is overrated anyway. Feelings? Yucky things.

The courses continue to flow, and the easy silence continues. Is this what happiness feels like? I think I like it. I could definitely get used to it.

“Are you finished?” he asks.

I look up from scraping the very last of the delicious chocolate gooey stuff off of my plate. His eyes are bright and intense. I should lick the plate. Or burp. Or do both. But I put my spoon down, pick up the heavy white napkin and politely wipe my mouth. Peer pressure is a bitch.

I place the napkin down and nod reluctantly. Is he going to talk to me after all? Am I going to have to have an adult conversation? My palms start to sweat. I don’t know how to do this. I have zero experience. None. Zilch.

“Look out of the window,” he says .

I obediently turn my head. Admiring the view is something I’m capable of. It is a relief to be given a reprieve. If only a temporary one.

Suddenly, all of London goes dark as every single light winks out of existence. I gasp. What the fuck? Are we under attack? What is happening?

As I stare in alarm, lights start to flicker back on. Just one or two, but it is something. A long curving line of working lights appears, at least a few miles long. Then next to it, a circle forms. I blink as a word spells out across London.

Sorry.

It says sorry.

In giant letters, miles across.

Oh my god. Thousands of Londoners are stumbling around in the dark, so this asshole next to me can make his grand gesture. Street lights and traffic lights are off. There are probably all kinds of accidents happening right now.

“Turn them back on!” I hiss.

“Do you forgive me?” he asks.

“Yes! I bloody forgive you, alright? Now turn London back on!”

He chuckles, waves his hand and the city lights up like a Christmas tree. It is nearly blinding after the dark. I sigh in relief and sag back against my chair. This fucking dickhead is unbelievable.

“Will you be my pet and my vessel?” he asks.

I scowl at him, even though my heart is flip-flopping that he wants me back.

“What does it entail?” Look at me, asking a sensible question. There may be hope for me yet.

Tristan leans back in his chair with a wicked gleam in his eyes. “It entails me taking care of you. Pampering you. Soft beds. Good food. Excellent baths. No responsibilities. No stress. Only sharing your sweet body with me and permitting me to give you as many orgasms as you can take.”

My cheeks are on fire. I know they are. Actual flames and everything. I’m so glad all the staff have run away to the other end of the restaurant.

“What about the vessel stuff?” I ask and I can’t believe I didn’t stammer.

Tristan shrugs elegantly. “It only means that when you surrender to me and give me your delicious cries and pleasure, you will also be giving me your magic.”

Oh lord does he argue a good case, because now he has put it like that, it seems stupid to say no. Ridiculous even. I don’t think anybody in the whole entire universe would decline such an offer. A spoilt and pampered plaything of a prince? Giving up magic I never knew I had? What’s not to like? I mean, possibly he has dazzled me with his grand gesture and I’m not thinking straight, but right now I cannot think of a single logical reason to say no.

He said sorry. I don’t think he will do it again. He wants to look after me and give me orgasms.

“Fine!” I mutter.

Tristan grins again, eyes sparkling in delight. “We have a deal?”

“Sure, whatever,” I snap.

His grin turns full wattage. It is going to melt me into this chair. It is already destroying all of my brain cells. It is impossible to resist.

When he smiles at me like this, I want to give him anything he wants. Anything at all. My soul? Sure, here it is on a plate.

Oh god. I’m really, really screwed, aren’t I?