“At first, I thought you walked out on me,” he says. “I thought you took off the way I had so many times back when you were in high school. In the days that followed, I wished you had.

“It was the full cup of coffee that changed everything. It was just sitting there on the patio table, still full. You of all people wouldn’t just leave a cup of coffee untouched.”

I smile a little because it’s true; I’d never let good coffee go to waste.

“That’s about the time I realized that you hadn’t left; you’d been taken.

“The anger I felt, the fear—” His voice cuts off and he shakes his head. “I scoured the earth for you, and then I scoured the Otherworld. Every minute that passed, the dread deepened. And it—” He runs a hand through his hair, letting out a choked laugh, “it was so much worse than those seven years of waiting. So vastly worse.

“I cashed in years of favors for breadcrumbs, and still it took me days to find myself in the Fauna Kingdom.”

My heart squeezes as I watch Des recall those days I was missing. I hadn’t known any of this.

“I should’ve been able to find you. I should’ve. The way my power works … the secrets I hear—the voices that tell me what I need to know—they were ominously quiet.”

Secrets? Voices?

He reaches for my hand, pressing the back of it to his mouth. I feel the slightest tremor in his touch, like the memory is still visceral to him.

“What about our bond?” I ask. “Couldn’t you have found me through it?”

I’d heard tales of soulmates tracking each other down, their bond like a compass directing them to the location of their mate.

Des tears his gaze from the horizon.

“There is something about our bond that I haven’t admitted to you …”

I don’t know how a single sentence can fill me with such foreboding, but this one does. My gut squeezes.

“What is it?” I can barely force the words out.

“Cherub, our bond … has issues.”

Chapter 31

When I find Temper back in her room, she’s picking out what to wear. Today, her hair is plaited in dozens of braids, crystals and spirals of gold woven into them.

“What’s up, chick?” she says after I plop onto her bed.

I watch her change, propping my head on my hands.

“Nothing …”

Everything.

“Not going to lie, these fae outfits are cute as fuck,” she says, tossing one next to me.

I make a noncommittal response.

Why did I come here? Temper is practically humming under her breath. Clearly things between her and Malaki are going well. She’s a sorceress in lust, which means she’s in no mood for a sad story.

“What is it?” she asks as she begins undressing.

“Nothing.”

Temper snorts. “Bitch, we’ve been friends for nearly a decade. Stop beating off the bush—”

I wince. “Around, Temper. Beating around the bush.”

She turns to me. “Does it look like I fucking care about prepositions? Just spit out whatever’s on your mind.”

“Des and I aren’t officially soulmates.” It comes out as a whisper.

She pauses in the middle of changing, her boobs on full display. “What do you mean?”

I grab the bra from the pile of clothes next to me and throw it at her. Distractedly, she begins to put it on.

I can hear Des’s words up in that treetop.

Cherub, our bond … has issues.

“When I was Karnon’s prisoner, Des couldn’t find me because even though we’re technically mates … our magic is incompatible.”

“Incompatible?” Temper says, looking bewildered. “That’s the stupidest shit I’ve ever heard. How can it be incompatible?”

“I’m a human. He’s a fairy. Our magic comes from different worlds.” It’s the same reason why my glamour doesn’t work on the fae, and why Karnon’s dark power never worked on me.

It’s not like human and fae magic is completely incompatible—Des can obviously use his own powers on me—but when it comes to the melding of our two essences … our bond is imperfect.

Temper harrumphs. “And yet you’re still soulmates?”

I nod, my chin rubbing against the backs of my hands. That was the one thing Des emphasized over and over again.

You are my mate.

“Alright, so then suck it up,” Temper says, slipping on her outfit. “At least you have a soulmate. The rest of us have to do this whole love thing the old fashioned way.”

I grab one of her pillows and bury my face into it. “Ugh, you’re right,” I say.

“Of course I’m right.” She sees the pillow in my hand. “Oh, uh, you don’t want to be cuddling that. I’m pretty sure it was used as a prop last night when Malaki—”

“Eugh!” I toss the pillow away while my friend laughs her ass off.

“Girl, your face was deeper in that pillow than Malaki’s dick was in me.”

“I don’t want to hear this for so many reasons.”

So. Many.

“He’s huge,” Temper says, flopping onto the bed next to me. “But you know, just the right amount of huge. We both know there’s such a thing as too much dick.”

I groan. Really, why had I come here?

“And when he starts going at it,” she continues, “the fucker’s like a jackhammer—”

Okay, that visual is thirty different types of disturbing.

“—I just have to hold on for dear life.”

I push myself off the bed. “Alright, story time’s over.”

“Don’t act like you didn’t want to know.”

“There’s knowing and then there’s knowing,” I say.

No one needs Temper’s level of detail.

“Are you ready?” I ask her when she finishes changing.

“Gah, you’re such a hustler,” she says. She shakes out her hair and grabs her things. “I’m ready.”

The two of us leave Temper’s room and head for the gardens below us. We cut through the palace grounds, stopping when we come to a table and chairs. We take a seat, and for a minute or so after we sit down, we don’t talk, instead watching the fairies that stroll.

“So,” Temper says, finally dragging her attention off the fairies around us, “where is everyone’s favorite criminal?” she asks.

“You’re going to have to be more specific than that.” She and I know a lot of criminals.

Temper sighs. “The Bargainer.”

“Oh—more meetings.” Ones that are strictly for rulers only. I should be there; I know that the discussions will include the reports of Karnon’s captives. But tradition forbids me from joining, so here I am, twiddling my thumbs with Temper.

A human woman comes up to us carrying a tea set and a plate of little sandwiches, the crust removed from them. I tense when I see the branded skin of her wrist as she sets the tray on our table.

A slave.

Being served by her feels wrong. If she chose to be a waitress, that would be one thing, but this is something else entirely.

Her eyes are downcast as she begins to set teacups in front of us.

I try to wave away her efforts to serve us. “It’s alright,” I say, “we’ve got this. Thank you for bringing this out.”