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All I need is one clue. One tiny little shred of evidence. And I’ll spend the rest of my life following that thread until it leads to my new fiancé’s absolute destruction. ords are cruel, jagged things that carve into the ever-growing wound inside me. Words I had once imagined falling from Valerian’s lips. Words that were supposed to fill me with anticipation, not hopelessness and despair.
Words that will bind me forever to the Fae in league with the Darken.
I make sure Hellebore can see the hatred seething from my entire being as I say, “I do.”
A dull throbbing pain wracks my right arm, where Valerian’s brand has claimed me as his for nearly two years. But I don’t have the courage to unzip my suit and pull down my sleeve to see what horror it hides.
Not until my Fae mother has dragged me as far away as possible from the Spring Court and I’m ensconced inside her penthouse in Manhattan, near her office skyscraper. A place that makes Mack’s top floor apartment look like a pauper’s dwelling in comparison.
Only then do I force my gaze over my arm. A single white Bloodstar bud grows between the metallic gold of Valerian’s markings. The tight bud has already begun to open. I know with a terrifying certainty that it will bloom, and then another bud will appear, and another.
Until Valerian’s brand is choked out and Hellebore’s mark is all that remains.
48
“Do you want to read them or should I trash them?” Mack asks, tipping down her black Ray Bans to reveal her cornflower blue eyes.
We’re sitting at one of the several cream-colored couches on my mother’s penthouse balcony, breathing in the warm New York air. Fae gossip magazines stolen from the magazine vendors below by Ruby are spread out on the glass coffee table; my face stares out from every single one.
The image of me taken wearing the Summer Princess’s crown—the one that would only bloom for her—is the most widely used.
It’s also the picture that I despise the most. The wide-eyed girl on the cover didn’t know it yet, but her future had just died.
Her hopes, dreams, freedoms, and love story, all destroyed.
I hate her innocence. How she still clings to that wonderful notion that she can be happy with Valerian. That her life is still hers.
“Trash,” I finally say. “Definitely.”
“Maybe you could make Ruby stop stealing them,” Mack suggests before grumbling under her breath, “and force her to wear some clothes while you’re at it.”
“I can’t make Ruby do anything,” I protest, glancing over at the sunbathing sprite. She’s laid out on the stone railing, completely, unapologetically nude.
“I can hear you, rude human,” Ruby calls before snapping her fingers. A brownie appears from thin air with a doll-sized frozen strawberry daiquiri in hand. “They’re calling my master the people’s princess. She’s beloved by all the world. Why not show her proof of that?”
My head falls back as a ragged sigh escapes my lips. But . . . part of what she says is true. I’ve been presented as both mortal and Fae, a princess for both races.
No doubt, thanks to my mother, who’s taken this opportunity to boost the image of her company. Not that I’d expect any less from a Fae.
Mack grins. “I bet Queen Larkspur loves Ruby.”
I snort, remembering the horrified way my mother stared at Ruby the first time she caught her in the walk-in pantry, tiny butt sticking out of a jar of honey.
“How is your mother, by the way?” Mack asks. “To be around every day, I mean.”
“Beautiful. Imposing. Hard to read.” I shrug, hoping Mack doesn’t hear the pain in my voice. Even though I called Zinnia my aunt out of respect for her daughter, I always considered her like a mother.
And now . . . it’s hard to feel anything for this strange woman when I miss Zinnia so much it physically hurts. When calling the Summer Queen mother feels like a betrayal to the woman who raised me.
Zinnia hardly batted an eye when I revealed the reason I had to spend the summer here. She must have always suspected I was part Fae somehow—suspected and still loved me.
Yep, there’s no way the Summer Queen can take Zinnia’s place.
“You don’t remember the queen from your life before?” Mack presses.
I take a sip of sweet tea and then lean back against the sofa cushion. “With the Winter Prince, there was a connection immediately. But . . . not with her. The only thing that feels familiar is her perfume. It has this exotic floral aroma I can’t place, but remember somehow. It’s unmistakable.”
“You’ve been here two weeks and that’s all you know about the woman? The scent of her perfume?”
