Page 2 of Every Eligible Man

"That does sound relaxing," Mira offers.

"It sounds miserable. But at least I'd stop being disappointed."

I scan the room again, searching for something, someone, who doesn’t reek of pedigree and premature disappointment.

More princes. More barons. More third sons and second cousins and men whose greatest accomplishment is being born with a title and a trust fund. They cluster in their little groups, peacocking for my attention, completely unaware that I'd rather set myself on fire than let any of them touch me.

Is this it? Is this my future? An endless parade of soft-handed aristocrats who couldn't find a clitoris with a map and a guide?

I’m twenty-four years old. I’m beautiful. I’m wealthy. I’m powerful.

And I have never, not once, been properly fucked.

The injustice of it burns in my chest.

"My lady?" Mira's voice cuts through my spiral. "Are you alright?"

"Fine," I say, draining my wine. "Just... fine."

No. I am not fine. I’m frustrated and furious and so desperately horny that I've started having dreams about the gardener, who is sixty-three and missing most of his teeth.

But I can’t say that.

The Shithole Farm

Ash

Three miles outside the castle walls, in a patch of mud that generously calls itself "Grimwald Acres."

I’m up to my elbows in pig shit.

Again.

The sun has already gone down, but the work hasn't. Baron Grimwald, my stepfather, my tormentor, the man I fantasize about murdering at least six times a day, decided that tonight of all nights was the perfect time to "deep-clean" the entire sty. Because "the pigs deserve better than your lazy ass, boy."

The pigs. Deserve better. Than me.

I haul another wheelbarrow of muck toward the compost heap, every muscle in my back screaming from twelve hours of this exact bullshit. Plowing fields. Mending fences. Carrying water. Being the unpaid pack mule for a man who hasn't done an honest day's labor since he inherited the title.

I’m twenty-six years old. Six-foot-four. Built like a man who's spent his entire life doing the work of ten servants because that's exactly what I am. My hands are calloused enough to sand wood. My shoulders are broad enough to carry the weight of this entire godforsaken farm.

And I’m so fucking tired.

"One of these days," I say, dumping another load, "I'm gonna shove this shovel so far up Brant's ass he'll taste last week's turnips."

A chorus of tiny, squeaky cheers comes from the open barn window.

"Fuck yeah, boss! Do it! Make it a double shove!"

"Tell 'em to choke on it!"

I glance over. Three pairs of beady black eyes peer out from a gap in the hayloft.

My rats.

Squeak, the big talker: notched ear, endless opinions, absolutely no filter. Nibbles, the short one, always chewing on something he shouldn't. And Twitch never shuts up but can pick any lock in the county with his teeth.

They’re my only real friends, which says everything about my life that needs saying.