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“Because human holidays are stupid and concerning.”
Ah, well, nice to know I’ve put some genetics into this head canon. “It’s Thanksgiving next week.”
“Is it really?”
“You’re depressing me.”
“Sorry. Thanksgiving. Wow. Next week? Incredible. There are going to be so many dead birds. And this, obviously, excites you—a vegetarian—doesn’t it?”
I laugh. “I just wonder if you’re doing anything for it.”
“I won’t be killing birds. I’ve never been able to find a taste for the sort of fear that comes instinctively from creatures that are too innocent to have complex thoughts.”
“Maybe I should invite you and Meda over to my house. Mom makes the best mashed potatoes in the world. And we’re a gourmet mac and cheese family, otherwise known as superior to all the families that don’t have mac and cheese on Thanksgiving.”
“I was not aware there was a prejudice.”
“Please. We’re humans. We’ll find some way to feel entitled, and if we can’t, we’ll make one up.”
Pollux runs his thumb over mine. “How…sad.”
“Is it different in Faerie?”
“At least in Cael’s domain it is. He doesn’t let anyone in if they don’t align with his code of care.”
I close my eyes. “A code of care. I love that. Arguably, it also sounds communist.”
“Arguably, communism works if all the people involved actually care about one another more than themselves.”
“Pity,” I murmur, “that we’re all too human for that.”
“Pity—” He turns his lips against the top of my head. “—that you think you are.”
Chapter 16
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Maybe I’m the monster if I’m making little girls cry…
I am a skank.
It’s an irrefutable fact now because I’m almost completely positive good, not skank girls don’t beg their student’s father to ravish them in their dreams. Like. Ever. Not even when their toilet brain has decided said father would make a stunning unseelie faerie garbed in lovely midnight shades…with really soft yet firm touches…and the kind of gentle laugh that turns my tummy inside out…
I am a skank, because—dang it all and everything and everyone—I am staring at the ceiling with a tiny cat sleeping like a croissant on my stomach and shaming myself not for having the dream itself but for getting embarrassed.
How dare I?
I could have experienced the most horrific, most depraved, most wonderful fantasy. I could have staved off my touch starvation and desire for romantic connection for at least a decade had I not stopped the course of events.
Pity it felt so real I started to panic.
Pity my real world morals tainted the blissful abandon.
They say that your true character comes out when no one is watching, so one might assume—based on that conjecture—I’m a very good girl. However, I think I would kill to return to the fantasy and listen to monster-Pollux whisper good girl in my ear.
So.
Yeah.
