The Fae King's Dream (Between Dawn and Dusk #2) - Jamie Schlosser Page 0,24
I went back in time. Maybe this is some sort of Viking time travel thing. No one talks like me. They all have accents.
Except for this girl.
“Hi, I’m Quinn.” She smiles. It’s so genuine, I can’t help feeling a little more at ease, and I think I recognize her voice from earlier.
“Are we friends?”
“We will be,” she states confidently. “So, that spark you felt comes from an old spell. S-T-R-I-K-E,” she spells out the word, “was cursed by a wizard a long time ago, so anytime someone says it, the people around them get shocked. That probably sounds crazy, I know. But once you understand where we are, it might make more sense.”
She starts chattering about how we’re both from Earth and now we’re in Valora, a magical world of faeries, trolls, and gnomes. She tells me she’s the queen of the Night Realm.
She doesn’t look like a queen. Her outfit is plain. Just jeans and a white sweater. She doesn’t wear any jewels or a crown.
Excitedly waving her hands, she talks about the greedy sprites—affectionately so—and how they don’t consider themselves to be subjects of the kingdoms.
She might as well be speaking a different language.
Honestly, I’m only half listening because I can’t stop eyeing Damon. His revealing shirt shows off his muscular shoulders and arms. Chiseled to perfection, his triceps bulge when he sticks his hands in his pockets. As he hangs his head, he nods to something his friend is saying.
I want him to look at me. I want his attention.
Lifting the sheet covering my lower half, I look down at my skinny legs. Bony ankles and knees. There’s chipped pink nail polish on my toes. My hair falls forward, and I inspect a chunk of the red strands. They’re scraggly and stringy.
Okay, so maybe I don’t want him to see me like this. I’m in desperate need of a shower and my outfit isn’t anything to brag about. It’s a drab light blue, and there are snaps along the front. Some of them are open, and I blush with embarrassment when I notice part of my nipple is showing through one of the gaps.
I wrap an arm across my chest. “Is this a hospital gown?”
“Yep.” Quinn turns to a cart behind her, pours a cup of tea, then holds it out to me. “You should try to drink something before we go into the details of that.”
The steaming liquid inside smells a bit flowery and sweet, but I hesitate to take it. “No thanks.”
“You feel nauseous?”
“No.”
“You don’t trust me,” she concludes.
“No.” I’m not trying to insult her.
Thankfully, she isn’t offended. In fact, she seems happy about it. “You’re honest. I like that.”
Damon steps in front of her, accepting the cup as he says, “I’ll take over.”
“It was so great to meet you, Whitley.” Grinning, Quinn hops happily. “I can’t wait for us to get to know each other better.”
Dumbly, I just nod like my head is full of air. And shit, maybe it is. Facts float around aimlessly in my mind. I know the names of weapons and objects. I can recognize clothing, and the purpose for certain garments. Words for colors and descriptions are easy to grasp, but I can’t recall where I learned any of the information.
My eyes move with Quinn as she goes to the guy Damon was just talking to, and I note the way she lovingly slips her fingers into his beltloops.
So, she’s not a threat, then. I have no reason to be jealous. Of her, anyway.
Glancing over my shoulder, I study the other faces in the doorway. There’s another attractive girl standing next to a guy with white-blond hair, though she looks young. Too young for Damon.
Looking back at him, I observe how he sits on the edge of the table, angling himself toward me, sitting so closely our thighs touch.
“Are we together?” I blurt, much to my embarrassment.
The hope in my voice is obvious. Pathetic, even. Heat rises to my cheeks when I realize I basically asked him out in front of everyone.
Without glancing at our onlookers, he sternly orders, “We need privacy.”
The room clears immediately, and I raise an eyebrow at his show of authority. His bossiness is sexy, but it’s a contrast to how gentle he’s being with me.
As he tenderly swipes the wet washcloth over my forehead and cheeks, a huge part of me wants to enjoy the surprisingly comfortable silence between us. To shy away from asking questions. To revel in blissful ignorance.