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Icy fingers tingling, I stare down the green-eyed girl in the mirror.
I bet Serafina could sacrifice a whole hand without a flinch.
If I’m playing her, I have to steal her juice.
Without giving myself time for dread, for a countdown, or even a deep breath, I stab myself in the neck.
Pain blanks my vision. The needle-cartridge clatters to the tile.
Head whirling like I’m hostage on the playground spinner, I reflux hard enough to taste flushed sushi. Then my lips pucker and my throat closes and all I can do is retch on vodka-lemon pheromones that taste like a flaming shot of kitchen floor cleaner.
When I stop sweating, shaking, and spitting bile into the sink, I’m pumping out Serafina’s hard lemonade like it’s my original recipe.
My real pheromones are pushed down but in reach when I stretch past the sour itch in my veins and a little to the left.
The fact that I can still protect myself keeps me from a full-on freak-out, but if I have to drop my act, I’m already screwed.
My pheromones have distance limits.
I’m not Dara who can block Redfang bullets with my brain—unless you count the literal way that turns me into a bloodstain.
The only way I’ll survive is by playing a perfect pitcher of gangster lemonade.
I shake off the fear and the sour candy aftertaste of the shot that leaves my neck itching.
I can do this.
Not because I want to, but because I need to prove I can.
The risk increases the reward.
Also, there’s the part where I have no choice.
But every second I survive, I’m showing what a good girl I can pretend to be.
That I’m safe to be free.
When I leave the bathroom, sweat mopped and mouth wiped, wearing the case as a wristlet, Elyse has Serafina’s laptop and phone hooked to wires on the dining room table.
She gives a cautious sniff. “Perfect. I can’t tell the difference. Now find a dress that fits.”
“Is there one with a neck?”
“One. But it shows more skin than fabric.” She yanks the contender from the rack.
It’s a poof of a princess skirt with a high neck and long sleeves that would be demure if they weren’t made of see-through, rose-patterned lace.
I swallow. “Will that cover my nipples?”
“Not really.” Elyse shrugs. “I guess Serafina wants to mate fast? She’s old to be unmarked.”
Right.
I checked Serafina’s ID.
She’s an ancient twenty-three, a whole year younger than me.
Flicking through the rack, my only options are V-necks, halters, and tube tops.
