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I’m fairly sure I’ve just eliminated all future mini-Rhaegars in one go, and I give zero fucks. I do, however, care that he’s starting to shift. His wild eyes turn more animal than Fae as his hate-wrenched lips transform into a snout. Claws erupt from his fingers.
Time to bail on this party.
I dart toward the heavily wooded area known as the Ramble, sneakers kicking up dust.
Behind me, an unmistakable howl shivers through the trees.
33
I make it maybe twenty yards when the snarling behind me goes quiet. A few heartbeats later, I recognize the honeysuckle and jasmine scent that heralds Prince Helle-Douche.
Ugh. Life can suck it. Bracing myself, I turn on the dirt path to face the Spring Court Heir.
Oh, Lordy. He’s close—way closer than I expected, wearing a white T-shirt, his hands casually shoved into the pockets of his light wash skinny jeans. His full sleeve tats and tall, lean body make him look like an edgy runway model out for a stroll.
“That was cruel,” he murmurs.
“Was it though?” I quip, not even caring at this point.
“So that’s what the Winter Prince has been teaching you during all those private lessons in the gym. Who knew he liked it so rough.”
“No, actually, Amarillo High taught me that particular move.” I fall into a fighting stance, legs wide and arms up in a defensive position. “Look, I’m way beyond my threshold for douches today. If you mess with me, I’m probably going to throat punch you. And while I’ve really been wanting to do that for a while, I’d rather just call it a day.”
His honey-gold brows gather in confusion. “Throat punch?”
“Yeah, another human specialty, reserved for dickheads like yourself.”
Whoa, Summer. One perfect knee to an Evermore’s man onions and you’re Chuck Norris.
But Hellebore seems more confused than anything. His head keeps tilting as if he’s trying to make sense of my suicidal threats. “Careful, little pet. Unless you want me to leash you right now.”
Right. No punching Hellebore because that counts as touching. The universe really has some explaining to do with that one.
I jerk my chin toward the bridge. “You were watching, weren’t you? You get off on all of this sick crap.”
“Yes. And . . . yes.” There’s no apology in his eyes. Nothing but dark amusement. “Evermore live a very long time, which means we have come up with thousands of creative ways to stave off boredom. I’ve hunted the most dangerous creatures in the Everwilde. When that lost its appeal, I turned to mortals.”
“You must be so proud. You chased down and killed a species weaker and slower than you.”
“Who said I killed them?” He arches an eyebrow. “There are infinite ways to destroy something without physically harming its flesh.”
“Your creativity should be applauded.”
Why do I keep goading him?
He must think I’m being serious, because he doesn’t bat an eye. “Unfortunately, even toying with your species lost its luster eventually. Do you know what I found is the only kind of prey that captures my interest indefinitely?”
Good God. What else is there? “No, sorry. I’m not caught up on the wacko handbook.”
A wolfish grin reveals perfectly white teeth. “Nothing is quite as satisfying as hunting my own kind. Discovering what bait they can’t resist. Learning how to plant snares so carefully that they never even notice they’re caught. And then, when they finally understand that they’re trapped, helpless to my desires, I force them to watch as I slowly dismantle everything they’ve ever cared about.” ould have the chefs cook dishes she’d found in the human world that she loved, even though the Winter King would have lost his crap.
At least, before she betrayed Valerian and disappeared.
Last week, Valerian officially invited me.
It’s funny how one invitation—formally engraved with a cute little blue ribbon—could make my heart feel like it was leaping right out of my chest. After a little negotiating, he even agreed I could bring Mack.
Ruby’s invite wasn’t quite as easy to conjure; in the end, I promised to wear a dress of Valerian’s choosing.
