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In this chapter. Syl’s met one of her own people, the Prince of the fair Fae, but he’s turned out to be a bit of a creeper…
I’m no good for you
You’re no good for me
Worship me, worship me
- “Worship,” Euphoria
I’m standing at the end of the football field, on top of the scoreboard, a don’t-see-me Glamoury cloaking me as I watch this fair Fae jerkwad hit on my girl. The wind blows cold, mirroring my emotions, whipping my dark hair about my face.
Every cell in my body begs me to go down there and knock him into next week. If he were a dark Fae, I would. But he’s not. He’s a fair Fae, one of Syl’s own people, and I won’t come between her and her people.
It wouldn’t be fair.
Still, I watch as he gets pushier and pushier, fury building up inside me until I swear, the Winter’s going to burst from my blood. I’m ready to explode, all my protective instincts on high alert.
I blow out a shaky breath and touch the ring in my pocket. Let Syl handle it, Rouen. Don’t go berserk…
At least not yet.
I can hear every word they say, thanks to my Fae hearing. He makes it sound so easy. Just pair up with him. He tells her they’re meant to be soul-bound. It’s what every teenage girl wants to hear, right?
Except, Syl’s not falling for his whole “fated mate” speech.
Good, because it’s more than half a lie.
She turns to walk away, and he grabs her. And refuses to let go. The flex of his biceps tells me he’s exerting his fair Fae strength.
I see red, my heartbeat pulsing so hard that time seems to spiral outward. In that moment, I know two things. One, he’s a prince and that means he’s powerful. Two, he’s likely had hundreds of years in the Summer Court, maybe even thousands. I’m not a quarter of his age.
He could easily overpower me, even kill me.
Let him try. No one grabs my girl.
All my fury rushes in, cold and calculating. Boosting my Glamoury, I leap to the bleachers. My motorcycle boots slam down on the metal slats hard enough to shake the whole foundation. I straighten, slow, deliberate, giving him my dead-eye stare. “For a fair Fae, you’re awfully pushy.” I look at the hand he has on my girl. I want to snap it off and beat him with it.
He squares his stance, still gripping Syl’s arm.
Wow. He’s really doubling-down on the stupid. I clench my fists, getting ready to fight. “Take your hand off her. Now.”
My threat rings out like the pounding of Faerie war drums. It hangs between us, a sharp and glittering thing, and I see him weighing his options, weighing me. Whether he can take me.
A smirk tilts his lips. He knows he can.
“Euphoria…” Syl’s voice trembles, but I give her what I hope is a reassuring smile.
Then I turn the full force of my dark Fae glare on Mr Fancy. He might be stronger, but I’m willing to bet I’m more cunning. I won’t go down without a fight, and he doesn’t want to pick one. Not here. Not when he thinks he can sway Syl’s decision by manipulation alone.
Not on my watch, buddy-boy.
He lets her go. “Rouen Rivoche.” His voice drips with scathing hatred.
I shrug one shoulder. “Prince What’s-Your-Bucket.”
Syl comes to my side, and I risk getting burned to a crisp by putting an arm around her. She leans in, the small, solid warmth of her body a balm to my ragged emotions. I keep her there longer than I should, already feeling the hum of her power firing up.
I let go and step away just in time.
“It’s Aldebaran,” he says. “Prince Aldebaran.” He puts both hands in the pockets of his skinny jeans and slouches in that way some guys have of making it look casual while flexing his biceps.
Give me a break. Agravaine was twice as big as this guy, and he went down just fine. The bigger they are, and all that.
We are a group of authors,