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Chapter 20: The Good Stuff

Sy uncanceled his American tour, with a proviso: it was going to be OUR tour now. Side by side, he said as we lay in the sun-drenched haze of a suite in the nearest luxury hotel. I was coiled under deliciously smooth blankets, tucked against the firm heat of his ribs, reading over his shoulder as he typed out typical, curt, Sy-ish texts to his manager, his agent, his producer. He didn't ask; he stated. Tour is back on. Hester is headlining with me. Make it happen.

As he typed, I focused on the pleasant thrill of the magic lingering on our skin: that golden feeling was like the slick of sweat, but if sweat felt how candy tasted. It's hard to put magic into human terms; that's part of the reason fae make such excellent poets and singers and storytellers. We have senses that reach to truths humans don't even know they're dreaming of.

Sy put down his phone, screen down, on the sheets. His arm snuggled around me, fingers winding into my silvery hair.

"It's done," he whispered beside my
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