Fey Regency (Fey Lords #3)

28. Chapter 28

Chapter twenty-eight

T his is the life. Comfy sofa, snuggly blanket, and Netflix on the projector. And best of all, a mug of proper tea. Supermarket own-brand bags and white sugar. None of this loose-leaf, sweetened-with-honey-from-wild-forest-bees nonsense.

Saying that, the tea Luci made me was delicious. As were the cups I’ve had here. But nothing beats familiarity. It is reassuring and comforting, and I am a little surprised at how much better such a simple thing is making me feel.

Tristan would probably give me the world right now, so asking for a cup of tea like Granny used to make, felt all kinds of feeble. But now I feel justified. It was a damn good thing to ask for, after all.

I take another sip and sigh in bliss. I probably should be alarmed that the guards couldn’t find the would-be assassin. But I cannot muster the energy for it. We are home. Tristan is safe. I have tea. All feels right with the world.

Behind me, the door opens and closes softly, but I don’t bother craning my neck to see. I am pretty sure it is Tristan. He promised he wasn’t going to be gone for long. And he is being true to his word.

However, that is no excuse for these stupid butterflies that have invaded my stomach. I can’t do a thing about them, but I can control myself and not let Tristan know that I’m ridiculously ecstatic that he is back.

Tristan walks into my line of vision, followed by Selwyn. My butterflies vanish in a whoosh of disappointment. What the hell is Selwyn doing here? I frown but say nothing. Hopefully, he will not be staying for long and then it will be only Tristan and me. Just the way I like it.

“Selwyn is here to examine you,” says Tristan.

I nearly choke on my tea. What the actual hell? As if him being here wasn’t bad enough.

“Like medically?” I splutter. “My knee is fine!” I add hastily.

And it is. The earlier ache has completely gone. Yay for fey fast healing. I honestly do not need a checkup. Especially since I’ve always thought there was something deeply insidious about a medical exam. Strangers touching me. Potentially in intimate places. I shudder. No thanks.

“Magically,” clarifies Tristan.

Oh. A magical examination? I’m not sure if that is better or worse. It still sounds ominous. And deeply unpleasant.

“Why?” I ask.

“To find out how you could foresee the attack,” Tristan says.

I stare into his eyes. I cannot see any deception. Which isn’t exactly surprising. He is an annoying bastard, but a straightforward one. If he wanted to pin me down and flay my skin off to see what colour I am inside, he’d just say so. He wouldn’t pretend it was a magical examination.

He holds my gaze, and I feel my blood heating. I swallow. Fuck it. For better or worse, I trust this motherfucker .

“Why can’t you do it?” I ask as my last protest. I’d much prefer to be magically probed by Tristan than anyone else.

Tristan shrugs. “Selwyn is far better at this kind of magic than I am.”

That’s candid enough, and pretty much what I had assumed. It is disappointing, but I am a big boy, and I will live.

“Fine,” I grumble.

It would be interesting to know exactly how and why I’m suddenly seeing the future. I am a little curious about it. Was it a one-off? If not, how often will it happen? Is it going to be useful, or is it going to be a pain in the ass?

Selwyn pulls up a chair and sits directly opposite me so that our knees are nearly touching. He gives me a small smile, one that I think is meant to be reassuring.

Then an itchy sensation spreads all over me. It is like being covered in ants or having a really bad case of pins and needles. I wince, and immediately Tristan steps forward and takes my hand.

Oh, that feels so much better. Now that I can cling onto him and squeeze his hand, everything is suddenly a lot more bearable.

Selwyn takes a deep breath, and the unpleasant sensation stops. I lean back against the sofa and huff out a breath of my own. Tristan doesn’t try to claim his hand back, and I make no move to release it.

“Your talents are finding what has been lost, and detecting threats,” says Selwyn. “You may not be able to wield magic to cast spells and such, but your senses are fully intact. You have talents like any full-blooded fey.”

I look up at Tristan. “Talents? ”

“Most fey have a talent or two. An area of magic they naturally excel in. Rhydian can dreamwalk. I’m good at making translators. Dyfri is brilliant with potions.”

A shudder trembles through me. Yeah, I know that one far too well. Which leads me to a thought.

“If I can detect threats, why didn’t I know that Dyfri was going to poison me?”

Selwyn gives me a kindly smile. Like an alcoholic actor doing a Santa gig for the money.

“As far as I can tell, your ability to sense threats is fed by affection.”

I blink and my eyebrows rise. Did he really just say that I don’t love myself? I mean, it’s accurate, but still, it is not the type of thing you just blurt out with. Especially when you barely know the person.

“I appreciate your involvement, Selwyn,” says Tristan.

He walks his brother to the door while I try to process the fact that I was just seen and perceived so very acutely. I’m not sure how I feel about it. Especially since it was in front of Tristan.

Oh stars. Selwyn also presented evidence that I am growing a little fond of Tristan. This is terrible. In a place full of secrets, it is alarmingly hard to keep my own.

Tristan drifts back over to me. He has a shit-eating grin on his face.

My eyes narrow with suspicion. “What?” Is he going to tease me about being fond of him?

“I should have known you’d turn out to be more of a guard dog than a pampered lapdog.”

“Shut up!” I snap as I fix him with my best glare. I think I’d rather be mocked for my affections .

This line of teasing is infuriating, mostly because being a pampered lapdog doesn’t sound bad at all. When Tristan first claimed me as a pet, I would have vehemently detested and fought against the idea. Now, however, it sounds appealing. Relaxing and stress-free. But I suppose being a guard dog is more respectable, as well as being far more suited to my personality.

Tristan sits down on the sofa next to me. Then he picks me up and sits me on his lap, as if I am a lapdog after all.

“What are you doing!” I squawk.

“You are getting grumpy,” states Tristan.

“I am not grumpy!” I snarl. How fucking dare he? He called me a flipping guard dog and I’m supposed to be fine with that? I don’t think so.

“Mm-hmm,” he hums, completely ignoring my indignation. His arms loop securely around my waist, pinning me in place.

“Let me go!” I demand, wriggling like an eel trying to escape a net.

“Not until you calm down,” Tristan replies, entirely unbothered. “Besides, you’re warm. I like the feel of you. And there is no reason you cannot be a pampered lapdog as well as a guard dog.”

“You insufferable bastard!” I snarl again, but there’s no real bite to my words.

I slump against him in defeat, letting the tension drain from my body. I’d never admit it aloud, but there’s something reassuring about his unyielding presence. Warmth seeps into my back where it presses against his chest, and I find myself relaxing despite my best efforts to hold onto my annoyance .

Tristan chuckles softly, clearly pleased with himself. “There we go. Much better.”

I huff but say nothing, choosing to stare resolutely at the projector screen instead. My tea, long forgotten, rests precariously on the arm of the sofa. I glance at it wistfully but decide it’s not worth the effort to retrieve it right now.

“You really are impossible,” I mutter, though my tone lacks venom.

“You love it,” Tristan retorts smugly.

And damn it, I kind of do.

“Now, I know what will really stop you from being grumpy,” he rumbles behind me.

“What?” I bark in alarm. I thought the embarrassment of sitting on his lap was the worst I was going to be subjected to.

Tristan chuckles and the movement shakes me a little. “I’m going to give you some orgasms to put you in a better mood.”

My mouth opens. My mouth shuts. My angry retort withers and dies unspoken. My heart flutters and my stomach flips over. Tristan’s plan doesn’t sound too bad. Heaven knows there have been worse ideas.

The sound of a bottle being unstoppered reaches my ears, and my cock stirs. Flipping heck, my body parts are learning what that noise means. It is a little unsettling.

“What exactly are you going to do?” I squeak.

Tristan makes a soft sound. “I’m going to finger you until you are nice and open. Then I’m going to sit you on my cock so you can keep it nice and warm while you sit nice and still and watch your television.”

Oh bloody hell. How are his words painting such a vivid picture? It feels like the image is searing into my brain. My cock has swelled to half-mast, and he hasn’t even touched me yet.

“Then,” says Tristan. “I will play with your nipples until you cum.”

I bite my bottom lip and manage to hold back whatever depraved noise I was going to make. Tristan has a filthy, sordid mind. How does he come up with this stuff? It is a very inventive interpretation of Netflix and Chill.

And I can’t find a single thing wrong with it.