Niall held Gabriel's gaze, as answering was impossible.

"Take her out of here, Gancanagh." Gabriel leaned left as Bananach flew at him. She was glorious, moving with an elegance that few faeries could equal. Rather than step out of her path, though, Gabriel stayed between Bananach and Niall.

The raven-woman ripped a strip of flesh from Gabriel's forearm where Irial's orders were written.

Gabriel's snarl was wall shaking as he swung at Bananach. "Go."

Niall turned around as Leslie swayed into him, her eyes unfocused. She closed them and leaned forward like she'd topple over. Shame rose in him. Their kisses had injured her and distracted him beyond reason. If Gabriel hadn't been there, Bananach would've been on them in moments.

What's happening to me? He should be able to resist one mortal girl, especially in the presence of a fatal threat. He'd always been addictive to mortals, but they hadn't been addictive to him. They made him drunk, made him so intoxicated that he could barely stand, but they were never impossible to resist. He looked at Leslie. She was pretty, but he'd seen plenty of pretty girls over the years. Pretty wasn't reason enough to lose himself as he was doing. Nothing made sense. He needed to step away. He wasn't keeping her safe from Irial's faeries—or from himself.

He steadied her with his arm as they walked. Behind them, he could hear the horrific sounds of the tussle among the dark faeries. It had been a long time since Gabriel's snarls and growls were welcome sounds, but tonight the Hound had saved him and Leslie both.

Why?

A gleeful shriek from Bananach made him spin Leslie into a doorway. He felt the ominous rush of Bananach's movement toward them.

Leslie's back was pressed against a tall iron fence. She stared at him with the openness of so many mortals over the years, her lips parted for a kiss he knew not to give her. "Niall?"

"Just…" He had no words that he could say. He looked away, counting each measured breath, concentrating on not touching her. Behind them he heard Gabriel's Hounds catch up. Bananach no longer crowed with pleasure. Instead she hurled curses at the Hounds. Then there was only silence in the street.

And he could hear Leslie’s uneven breathing, matching his own, proof that they were both more excited than either of them should be. She shouldn't be that drunk on just a couple of kisses. It wasn't as if he'd touched her in any intimate way. Yet. He wanted to, more than he could remember ever wanting a mortal. He put his hands against the iron fence behind Leslie: the pain of it helped chase away his irrational thoughts.

He looked behind him to assess the safety of moving. Bananach was gone. The Hounds were gone. No other faeries lingered in the street. It was only the two of them. He let go of the fence and opened his mouth to find an excuse to explain why he'd pushed her into the wall and kissed her so—an excuse that would stop things before they went further.

Is there such a statement?

But Leslie's hand slipped under his shirt, tentative but there nonetheless. He could feel the edges of the cuts on her palm and fingers as she slid her hand up his spine.

He pulled back.

Unable to keep her hand on his back as he stepped away, she slid it to his chest, lingering under his shirt. Her fingers traced upward to his heart.

Neither of them spoke or moved for several moments. Leslie’s pulse had slowed back to normal. Her passion had abated. His guilt, on the other hand, wasn't leaving so quickly. There was nothing he could say to undo where they were, but he couldn't move forward either. His plan to be near her as a friend was failing horribly. He said, "We should go."

She nodded, but her fingers continued to trace lines on his skin.

"You have a lot of scars," she said, not asking but leaving the comment hanging there for him to answer or not.

Answering that implied question was something he didn't do, not when his king had been too young to realize that it was an awful question, not when he took any of the fey to his bed, not when his new queen had first seen him at guards' practice and looked at him with tears in her eyes. But Leslie had scars of her own, and he knew what had caused hers.

He kissed her eyelids carefully and told her, "It was a very long time ago."

Her hand stilled where it rested over his heart. If she thought anything of his erratic heartbeat, she didn't say.

Finally she asked, "Was it an accident?"

"No. It was very much on purpose." He brought her free hand up to the scar on his cheek. "None of these were accidental."

"I'm sorry." She leaned up and kissed his cheek. Her gentleness was even more dangerous than her passion had been.

If he thought on it, he could remember the pain as vividly as when it had happened. The memory of the pain cleared his head, helped him focus on where he was, and what he needed to be like for Leslie: strong, careful, a friend. He said, "I survived. Isn't that what matters? Surviving?"

She looked away. "I hope so."

"Do you think less of me?"

Her expression was aghast. "No. Gods no."

"Some would."

"They're wrong. Whoever hurt you …" She shook her head, her look murderous now. "I hope they suffered for it."

"They did not." He looked away then. If she knew how badly they'd broken him, would she pity him? Would she think him less a man for not being strong enough to escape them? He had, afterward. At the time he would've happily become a shade—faded rather than endure another moment of that pain, those memories. It would've been easier to give up, to end. Instead the last Summer King had found him, taken him into the Summer Court, and given him the space to recover his pride, to rebuild his mind.