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Who is he? Why does he sound like he knows me? It’s been far too long… Though it feels like I should know who he is, I don’t know his voice. It’s so pretty, though. Anyone who sounds like that can’t be all bad.
Right?
Wrong.
So, so wrong.
I blink my eyes open. The first thing I notice is that I’m not in my room. I’m lying in a bed—but it’s not my bed, either. The blanket is softer, thicker than the one I have at Black Pine, and the sheets beneath my back feel like silk. The walls are painted a soft yellow—not industrial white—and the window to my right is missing its bars.
The second thing I notice?
I’m not alone.
/> As my eyes slide over to find the owner of that lovely voice, fear comes rushing back, seizing control. I nearly choke.
Because there he is. The golden-eyed fae who killed my sister.
He’s tall and unnaturally slender, just like I remember. From his side of the empty room, he looms over me, his shadow stretching out to cover the edge of this unfamiliar bed. His face… damn it, his every feature is breathtaking. Bronze skin, long golden hair, a body that would make an Olympic sprinter weep in shame.
He’s beautiful, so angelically beautiful that I almost want to cry. In my mind, I always think of the golden fae as a monster. He doesn’t look like one, though. He never has. It’s his callous nature, his cold and capricious ways… it’s how easily he killed Madelaine because I refused him… that’s what makes him a monster.
Then there are his unnatural eyes—
His eyes are gold. Pure gold. They shine out from his face, his most mesmerizing feature of all. They’re like two miniature suns burning bright as his lips curl in delight.
At first, I’m beyond terror. I’m so scared to see him standing there that I can’t even scream. I’m paralyzed. Then I remember Diana and those same eyes as the ones set deep in his face. The hysteria. The sedation.
It’s a dream.
A nightmare.
I shudder out a breath. Whatever he’s doing here—no matter why I conjured him up during my drugged sleep—he can’t hurt me and I know that.
Still, my voice shaky, I whisper, “It’s you.”
He holds out his hand. “Come to me.”
Hell no. Not even in my dreams.
And it has to be a dream right now. I’m in an unfamiliar room with the monster from my memories and, while I know better than to get any closer to him, I’m not freaking out. Not really. I’m angry, sure, but also kinda calm. I’ve got to be dreaming. I mean, I have this hazy, vague feeling that I should be running, should be screaming, should be trying to escape—but I’m not. I’m just glaring over at this creature.
He’s as terrifying as he is beautiful.
And then he shakes his head. His perfect lips tug into a frown.
He holds out his hand again.
“Zella. Come.”
I don’t know what it is that he said. Not the part where he orders me to come to him like I’m a dog or something—that part I’ve got. But that first word? It seems familiar, almost like I should know it, the way it sings in my ears and settles in my soul. I grasp at it, trying to capture it, but it disappears before I get the chance.
Besides, I’m a little bit preoccupied with my body’s strange reaction to his command.
I actually obey the fae.
I don’t have any control over my actions. Like a puppet being manipulated by its strings, I rise from my laying position, my arms jerking wildly, my legs weak and wobbly. I swipe the blanket aside, then get to my feet. Once I’m standing, I try to dig in my heels. Doesn’t work. Something is pulling me toward the golden fae—magic, charm, a compulsion—and it’s too hard for me to fight against it.
I finally manage to break the spell when a precious few feet separate us. I shake my head, scrabbling backward so that he can’t reach out and touch me. It won’t stop him from striding closer, but I don’t care about that right now.
