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1
The slipper mocks me.
It’s lying on its side in an oily puddle that shimmers in the single sliver of sunlight, the once-white material dotted in mud, streaked with grime. The last I saw it, I’d left it behind me when I was running out of the cemetery, right after I trapped the fae chasing me inside of a mausoleum.
That was hours ago. Since then, I discovered that I lost a week of my life and, oh yeah, I’m considered a fugitive from the asylum I spent the last six years locked inside. And, since I am a fugitive, instead of asking the police officer in his cruiser for help, I ran away from him, using my memory of Acorn Falls’ back streets to escape.
It might’ve cost me a busted ankle when I hopped a fence and landed hard on the concrete, but I managed to dodge the cop in time. That was a plus. The downside? He had a partner or something waiting on the other end of the alley. I had to hide—and the only place I could find was beneath a half-open manhole cover.
You heard that right. Because I had no other choice, I shimmied past the small gap left from where the manhole cover sat crookedly on the ground, then climbed all the way down into the smelly, dank sewer.
I thought I was safe. I thought that the cops would never think to follow me down here, and that I was out of reach of the fae chasing me.
Yeah. Right.
Now I’m huddled in the bottom of a damp, dark—did I mention smelly?—sewer, my ankle throbbing, my heart racing.
And he’s found me. Rys, the golden fae—the Light Fae—the brilliant, beautiful monster who killed my sister… who works as a guard for the Fae Queen who wants me dead… who offered to protect me if I chose to mate him… he’s found me.
I can’t pretend otherwise. After he tracked me down to the Acorn Falls cemetery where Madelaine is buried, I let him think that I would allow him to touch me. For any of the fae, there’s power in a touch. All he had to do was brush my cheek—with my permission—and he could take a part of me. My life, my strength, my soul… Rys could feed on a single touch, making him even more powerful than a Seelie already is.
Of course, I was bluffing. My whole life, I’ve been told over and over again never to let the fae touch me. My guardian and mentor, a Shadow Man who called himself Nine, brainwashed me into keeping my hands to myself. Sure, I might have ended up a bit haphephobic—fear of touch, though it’s not so much fear as just the idea of touching someone else can bring on the mother of all panic attacks if I’m not prepared for it—but at least I’m still alive.
Madelaine... isn’t.
It’s my fault, too. One of the only times I forgot how dangerous and ruthless the fae are, my sister paid the price. I burned my hands trying to save her, but I was too late. Madelaine was gone, I blamed the fae, and I found myself being committed to the Black Pine Facility for Wayward Juveniles.
The fae couldn’t follow me there. For six years, I took my meds, attended my sessions, listened to a revolving door of psychologists and shrinks tell me that Faerie isn’t real.
Somehow, I believed them.
Bad idea. Seriously. Without the threat of the fae forever chasing after me, I let down my guard. A couple of days ago—or more, I don’t know where my missing week went—I slipped up and pressed my ruined palm against Rys’s bronzed, perfect hand as we danced. I thought I was dreaming.
I wasn’t then.
I’m not now.
When I kicked the piece of wood that kept the mausoleum door open, it slammed shut, trapping Rys inside. He’s fae, so I didn’t doubt that he’d find a way out eventually, but I thought I had a little more time.
