Page 43 of Every Eligible Man

From the hayloft above us, the animals are having the time of their lives.

"Oh, this is beautiful," Squeak whispers, peering through a gap in the wood. "They're literally trying to reshape their dicks. I've never been more entertained."

"The big stupid one is still doing stretches," Nibbles reports. "I think he pulled something."

"Good," Twitch says viciously. "I hope it falls off."

Bastard is perched on a hay bale beside me, feathers ruffled with anticipation. He lets out a low, threatening honk, the kind that promises violence to the Grimwald bloodline specifically.

I put a hand on his neck. "Not yet. Let them humiliate themselves first."

Bastard honks again, softer. He understands. He's patient. He can wait.

Susan has positioned herself at the highest point of the barn, tiny body rigid, nose twitching toward the approaching carriage. She's been inconsolable since Gerald's capture. Wreck tried to comfort her, but ferret grief is apparently a powerful thing.

"Gerald's in that carriage," she chitters mournfully. "I can smell him. He smells like stolen jewelry and emotional trauma."

"Focus, Susan," I say. "We need to stay hidden until she leaves."

"She's not going to leave," Ash says from his stall. "She's hunting."

Through the barn slats, I watch the royal carriage roll to a stop in the muddy yard. The door opens.

Lady Cinder steps out.

Gods, she looks magnificent.

Crimson riding dress, hair pinned up in a style that says "I have been inspecting penises for four days and I am done playing nice," and Gerald perched on her shoulder like a furry familiar from hell.

I catalogue every detail automatically. The tension in her shoulders. The determination in her jaw. The way her eyes scan the farm with predatory focus.

She's not just searching. She's certain.

She knows we're here. She just doesn't know where.

Gerald's head swivels toward the barn. His body goes rigid.

"Oh shit," Wreck breathes from somewhere above us. "He knows. He KNOWS."

Gerald begins chittering, not his usual chaotic screaming, but something urgent and desperate. His tiny paws scrabble at Cinder's shoulder, trying to launch himself toward the barn.

"In a moment, you little monster," Cinder says, holding him in place. She surveys the farm with the calculating eye of a woman who has inspected eight hundred and forty-seven cocks and found them all wanting. "Baron Grimwald. What a pleasure to see you again."

The Baron bows so low his wig nearly falls into a mud puddle. "Your Ladyship! What an honor! An unexpected, completely surprising honor! We had no idea you were…"

"Save it." Cinder strides forward, her lady-in-waiting trailing behind with the boot, the glove, and a look of exhausted resignation. "I'm told you have farmhands. Working men. Men who might fit this boot."

"Farmhands? Here?" The Baron's laugh is approximately seventy percent panic. "No, no, Your Ladyship, we have no farmhands. Just my sons! My two wonderful sons who would be honored to try on the boot again and…"

"They already failed. At the castle." Cinder's smile is sharp. "But since I'm here, why not let them fail again? It'll be entertaining."

I can't help it. I grin.

This is going to be delicious.

Brant steps forward, chest puffed, confidence completely unearned. "My lady, I believe there may have been an error at the castle. The lighting was poor. The boot wasn't properly warmed. My foot was... temporarily shrunken from travel."

"Your foot was temporarily shrunken," Cinder repeats flatly.