The next afternoon you lay on your back in the grass, savouring the warmth of the sunshine filtering through the canopy of leaves, noting how you might incorporate it into your next painting. Lucien, claiming that he had miserable emissary business to attend to, had left Tamlin and you to your own devices, and the High Lord had taken you to yet another beautiful spot in his enchanted forest.

But there were no enchantments here no pools of starlight, no rainbow waterfalls. It was just a grassy glen watched over by a weeping wil-low, with a clear brook running through it. We lounged in comfortable silence, and I glanced at Tamlin, who dozed beside me. His golden hair and mask glistened bright against the emerald carpet. The delicate arch of his pointed ears made me pause.

He opened an eye and smiled lazily at you. "That willow's singing always puts me to sleep."

"The what of what?" You said, propping yourself on my elbows to stare at the tree above us.

Tamlin pointed toward the willow. The branches sighed as they moved in the breeze. "It sings."

"I suppose it sings war-camp limericks, too?"

He smiled and half sat up, twisting to look at me. "You're human," he said, and rolled my eyes. "Your senses are still sealed off from everything."

You made a face. "Just another of my many shortcomings." But the word - shortcomings— had somehow stopped finding its mark.

He plucked a strand of grass from your hair. Heat radiated from your face as his fingers grazed your cheek. "I could make you able to see it," he said.

His fingers lingered at the end of your hair. "See my world-hear it, smell it." Your breathing became shallow as he sat up. "Taste it." His eyes flicked to the fading bruise on your neck.

"How?" You asked, heat blooming as he crouched before you.

"Every gift comes with a price." You frowned, and he grinned. "A kiss.”