Better.

He forced away that line of thought and watched the sway of Leslie's h*ps as she walked through the streets of Huntsdale with a courage—foolishness—that ran counter to what he knew of her experiences. Maybe she’d go home if home were any safer. It wasn't. He'd seen that the first time he'd stood waiting on her front step, heard her drunken father, her vile brother. Her home might look charming from the outside, but that was a lie.

Like so much of her life.

He glanced down at the heelless shoes she had on, at her bare calves, at her long legs. The unexpectedly early start of summer this year—after ages of oppressive cold—was leading to mortals exposing more skin. Looking at Leslie, Niall wasn't complaining. "At least you have decent shoes tonight. I couldn't believe you went to work in those dainty little things the other night." He shook his head. "They were lovely, though. Well, really, I just liked the glimpse of your ankles."

She headed to the restaurant, where she would put on her fake smile and flirt with the customers. He'd see her to the door; then he'd wait outside, watching the bodies that came and went, making sure they didn't mean her harm. It was the routine.

Sometimes he let himself imagine how things would be if she could truly know him—see him in a true light. Would her eyes widen in fear if she saw the extent of his scars? Would her face crumple in disgust if she knew the horrible things he'd done before he belonged to the Summer Court? Would she ask why he kept his hair shorn? And if she asked, could he answer any of those questions?

"Would you run from me?" he asked in a low voice, hating the fact that his heart sped at the thought of pursuing a mortal girl.

Leslie paused as a group of young men catcalled from their car. One of them hung halfway out the window, displaying his vulgarity as if it made him a man. Niall doubted that she could hear their words: the bass in their car was too loud for mere voices to compete with. Actual words weren't necessary to know threat. Leslie tensed.

The car sped away, the rumbling bass fading like thunder from a passing storm.

He whispered against her ear, "They're just children, Leslie. Come now. Where's that spring in your step?"

Her breathy sigh was soft enough that he would have missed it if he hadn't been standing very close. A little of the tension eased from her shoulders, but the drawn look stayed on her face. It never seemed to fade. Her makeup didn't hide the shadows under her eyes. Her long sleeves didn't hide the purpling bruises from her brother's angry strikes the other day.

If I could step in …

But he couldn't, not into her life, not into her home. That was forbidden to him. All he could do was offer her his words—words she couldn't hear. He still said, "I'd stop anyone from taking that smile from you. I would, if I were allowed."

Absently, she put one hand on her back and glanced in the direction of Pins and Needles. She smiled to herself, the same smile she'd worn when she left the tattoo parlor.

"Aaah, you've finally decided to decorate that pretty skin. What will it be? Flowers? Sun?" He let his gaze drift up her spine.

She paused; they'd reached the restaurant. Her shoulders sagged again.

He wanted to comfort her, but instead he could only give her his nightly promise, "I'll wait right here."

He wished she'd answer, tell him she'd look for him after work, but she wouldn't.

And it's better this way. He knew it, but he didn't like it. He'd been a part of the Summer Court long enough that his original path was almost forgotten, but watching Leslie— seeing her spirit, her passion … Once, when he'd been a solitary fey, when he'd had another name, there'd have been no hesitating.

"I agree with Aislinn, though. I want you kept safe," he whispered in her ear. Her soft, soft hair brushed against his face. "I will keep you safe—from them and from me."

Chapter 3

Irial stood in the early morning light, silent, one of his faeries lying dead at his feet. The faery, Guin, had worn a mortal guise so often that bits of her glamour still clung to her after death—leaving part of her face painted with mortal makeup and part gloriously other. She had on tight blue denims—jeans, she and her sisters always reminded him when they spoke—and a top that barely covered her chest. That slip of cloth was soaked with blood, her blood, fey blood, spilling onto the dirty ground.

"Why? Why did this happen, a ghrá? Irial bent down to brush her bloody hair from her face. Around her were bottles, cigarette butts, and used needles. None of these offended him the way they once had: this area was rough, grown more violent these past years as the mortals settled their territorial disputes. What offended him was the notion that a mortal bullet had taken one of his own. It might not have been intentional, but that changed nothing. She was still fallen.

Across from him waited the tall, thin beansidhe who'd summoned him. "What do we do?" She wrung her hands as she spoke, resisting her natural instinct to wail. She wouldn't resist for long, but Irial didn't—couldn't— answer yet.

He picked up an empty casing, turning it over in his fingers. The brass shouldn't hurt a fey, nor should the lead slug that he'd removed from the dead faery's body when he arrived. It had, though: a simple mortal bullet had killed her.

"Irial?" The beansidhe had bitten her tongue until blood seeped from her lips to drip down her pointed chin.

"Ordinary bullets," he murmured, turning the bits of metal over in his fingers. In all the years since mortals had begun fashioning the things, he'd never seen one of his own dead from them. Shot, yes, but they had healed. They'd always healed from most everything mortals inflicted— everything but severe wounds made by steel or iron.