Page 35 of Their Wicked Cage

She studies me intently, as if she’s trying to read me. An impossible task considering I’ve spent my entire life at court. Masking my true feelings comes as naturally to me as breathing.

She rubs her lips together before her mouth curves upward into a mischievous smile. “You seem to dislike me most of the time. Does that mean I’m not pretty?”

She’s fishing for some kind of reaction, and I will not take the bait.

I will not.

“Of course you’re pretty,” I say gruffly, taking her bait and throwing it back at her. “Just not pretty enough to tempt me.”

Fuck.

I expect her face to fall or her cheeks to heat with embarrassment at my insult, like when I told her she’d never blend in among the others in my kingdom. Instead, she rolls her eyes in a manner I’m finding increasingly less irritating and… dare I say, cute.

I clamp down on the thought—smother it, choke it, stamp it out.

The pink pads on the bottom of a cat’s paw are cute. Drawings done by small children are cute.

A powerful witch who can resurrect an undead legion for the thrill of it is not cute.

No. Gwynnevere Halethorne is not cute.

She’s—

Getting up. Wiping dirt from her shirt and slipping into that too fucking small tent that I stupidly offered to share with her tonight.

Fuck.

I’m wide awake when it happens.

Gwyn whimpers in her sleep, rolling from her side of the bedroll and across the slim, makeshift barrier of clothes balled up between us, until her head rests gently upon my chest.

I’m pinned to the spot.

It’s only when she shivers that my body moves before my brain can catch up, and I wrap my arm around her back, pressing her against me. It’s an innocent gesture. A courtesy, actually. The witch is clearly cold, and I have warmth to spare. This is an apology for insulting her earlier, even if she isn’t aware I’m offering it to her. As she curls closer, I tell myself this lie over and over as the promise I made to my mother burns a painful reminder across the back of my neck.

Warmth brushes against me, and the aroma of something alluring and otherworldly threatens to keep me from waking. I blink my eyes open, taking in the golden light seeping through the small opening between the tent’s flaps.

It’s then that I realize my arm is draped possessively over Gwyn’s lithe waist, hand flat against her stomach, pinning her tight against me. I must have reached for her in my sleep because the moment I wake enough to recognize the intimacy of the touch, a sharp sting blooms under my skin.

I shouldn’t be holding her this way.

I bite back a groan as she scoots her backside flush against my raging erection.

She startles awake with a gasp.

“I’m sorry,” I say, wincing as I sit up and adjust my cock, “as a male, it just happens sometim⁠—”

“I do know how the male body works, Riven,” she says sleepily.

“Then you should know it means nothing,” I hiss, words pouring out of me in a violent rush. “I don’t fuck⁠—”

“Females who aren’t fae,” she finishes for me, turning around and fixing her eyes on me. “Are you done telling me things I already know? Besides, I’m not pretty enough to tempt you, remember?”

The mention of my rude comment from last night sends a whirlpool of guilt swirling throughout my stomach. I mumble something about checking on Cinder before stumbling out of the tent with the ghost of her warmth still lingering on my skin.

Away from her, I can finally breathe.

Cinder whinnies the moment he sees me.