Shit.
He knows my name.
I swallow, my pulse beating a heavy drumroll. What the hell is happening? This can’t be a dream. Dreams are vague, abstract, and whimsical. This is all real.
The firm mattress beneath my body, the silk sheets on my skin, the masculine scent and delicious heat radiating from the man in bed with me—It’s all real.
“Alienor, should I call for the court physician?” He turns around and reaches through the heavy white curtains.
“No.” I grab his bicep.
His skin is smooth and warm and encases hard muscles. I’ve never been able to touch anything in my dreams. By the time my mind registers that I’m asleep, it always jolts me awake.
“Just tell me what’s happening,” I blurt.
The man’s gaze softens. “It’s our wedding night, my darling. Do you not remember?”
My throat tightens.
I study his face once more. Arched brows, a perfectly straight nose with a tiny dip in its septum, full, kissable lips, and a strong jaw. Utterly handsome, but so far, completely human.
Raising a trembling hand toward the man’s head, I thread my fingers through his hair and push it back to expose perfectly human ears.
Now, it’s my turn to furrow my brow.
He’s not an Unseelie faerie.
I bite down on my bottom lip.
Earlier, he called me Alienor. Perhaps he thinks I’m my ancestor.
“Henry?” I whisper.
His expression lifts into a wicked smile. “Now, you remember?”
“Of course,” I rasp.
So, I’ve either traveled through time or I’ve stumbled through a glitch in the magic that connects me to Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine. I meet his eyes again. The irises aren’t as bright as the Boogie Man’s. King Henry doesn’t have the golden flecks, but that’s the only difference.
This has to be what the Boogie Man looked like before he turned into a monster. He’s handsome. It’s not the same unearthly beauty that could make a girl fall to her knees, but this is a more everyday attractiveness that’s infinitely more comfortable.
“You should know I’m not your wife,” I murmur.
“Of course, you are. We consummated the union last night.” His eyes twinkle. “Twice.”
I let my eyes wander down to his bare chest. His pectoral muscles are defined, and there’s only a hint of a six-pack. He looks like a man who is strong and fit but doesn’t spend hours at the gym. My gaze travels down to the large tent in the silk sheets concealing the erection that pressed into my ass.
Shit.
Now, I want to see if he has one head or four. And if it’s flesh-colored or bright red.
“Do you see something you like, my wife?” King Henry asks, his voice light with amusement.
“Maybe,” I squeak.
A little voice in the back of my head tells me I need to stop flirting with this centuries-old king and start finding a way back to the twenty-first century.
I tell that little busybody that there’s plenty of time for time travel. Maybe I just need to satisfy my curiosity.