I can’t deny I took advantage of it. Before coming here, I found myself called back to that disgusting-looking food truck I clocked the first night we arrived. The Salty Bastard.
After devouring one of their suspiciously inexpensive lobster rolls dripping in butter and sweet brine from a paper boat, I realize that by the end of the day I’ll either be violently ill or have a food habit that will be very hard to kick. The fries were crispand salted to perfection, and I already can’t stop thinking about when I can go back.
I shouldn’t develop a dependency on food here. We won’t be staying.
Though a part of me hopes Aurora’s right. Maybe she can go cold turkey. Maybe she knows her body and power better than anyone.
But the larger part of me knows. Her power is a curse. It is not to be controlled. It is only to be endured.
Shaking my head, I push my worries of the future out of my mind and focus on being shown around Poison Apple from front to back.
I don’t need to ask questions. The work’s familiar—stand still, look dangerous, end problems before they start.
It grounds me.
The bar isn’t open yet, so I pitch in to help prepare, bringing out crates of booze from the back. I drop a stack of three crates when I hear the deliberate thud of heavy boots approaching. They strike the floor with real weight, not the dainty tap of someone trying to make an entrance.
Laughter spills down the hallway. “Five bucks says he walks into a wall,” Snow sings.
“His pupils are gonna dilate so fast he’ll blackout,” Ariel adds, somewhere between amused and pitying.
I turn in time to see the two Lost Girls make space, and then she steps out.
Aurora.
Only this is not the princess I’ve guarded for years.
No glittering chains. No silks draped over curves to imply virtue or seduction. No crown of grief.
Hair hacked to her shoulders, pink, choppy, wild, as if cut on a dare. Blue streaks drip down the ends, inked rebellion in her hair. Her lips are stained a dark berry red, and her eyes are linedin sharp black. A bar pierces through her brow, complemented by a stud in her nose. Her ears glint with silver. She looks like sex and war had a baby and dared you to touch it.
She’s wearing a grunge band tee that’s cut in a crop so high, I can see the under swell of her breasts. The very thought of her lifting her arms to expand the view turns my throat dry.
A leather skirt hugs her to mid-thigh, over fishnets with one rip near the knee. Combat boots envelop her feet, and a black choker wraps her throat.
It’s not an outfit for lust. It’s not for me.It’s not for anyone.
This? This is hers.
Aurora didn’t dress to please. She got dressed to be. And fae fuck me, I’ve never wanted anything more.
My cock stirs before I can stop it. My skin tightens with heat. My teeth ache. I want to turn away but can’t. She walks like a blade being unsheathed. Every step loud enough to drown my thoughts.
I know the girls are watching me.
My jaw clenched, chest rising and falling in jagged breaths.
But I don’t care. She’s radiant. And it’s not magic. Not her curse. Not the energy that ensnares when she feeds. It’s something wilder.
She’s fire and steel and leather and skin, and I want—gods, I want to drag her to a back room and rip those fishnets with my teeth as I grip the collar at her throat. I want to bury my tongue between her thighs and make her forget every person she’s ever had to feed on.
I want to hear her moan my name while I bite the place just below her ear that always made her shudder when she fed.
Snow elbows Ariel. “Yup. Hard as stone.”
“He’s gonna ruin his pants,” Ariel mutters, while shaking her head.
Rap doesn’t say anything. She just watches me, cataloging every move.
