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Behind her, Hellebore’s beaten up sprite tries to follow. One of his iridescent wings is shredded, his face a bloody pulp where I’m assuming Ruby hit him with her stick. Repeatedly.
My heart swells with pride as she wedges herself between Hellebore and me, a mouse facing off against a lion.
“Take one more step toward my master,” she cries, “and I’ll cast a spell that will make your shriveled up little sausage limp for a century.”
Despite facing mortal peril, I choke out a laugh.
It can’t be coincidence that both Ruby and I both threatened his junk, because guys—and Fae—like him think that’s what makes them a man.
Hellebore appraises her with a curious expression. “You would die for this mortal?”
“I would,” Ruby declares, and I make a mental note to give her all the candy in the world if we survive this. “She’s claimed me, which means I belong to her and she to me.”
Hellebore turns to look at his loyal sprite, still wavering in the air beside his master looking seconds from falling over dead. “Nerium, I see you met your match.”
Nerium says something to Hellebore in one of the old languages, and then Hellebore lifts him from the air and settles him on his shoulder.
The act almost makes Hellebore seem, if not kind, then decent. Until he turns to me, at least, and his face is anything but kind. “Your choice, mortal. Make the bargain or lose your spot in the academy and become a slave of the Spring Court.”
I look from him to Ruby . . . and, slowly, an idea forms. One that, if worded just right, might let me make this bargain on my own terms.
Without being controlled like a puppet by a flower-tatted BDSM serial killer.
“I’ll bargain with you . . .” I wait until his lips part with expectation, his eyes gloating, and then add, “on one condition. Actually, no, two conditions. First, you tell Inara and her friends to call off the attacks. No more pranks, no more trying to make me fail. Unless you can’t make her listen to you—”
“Done. And the other?”
“Second . . . I choose the part of me you touch.”
His eyes narrow.
Shoot. I gave in too easily. I should have protested more. “Or not. If you don’t want to bargain—”
“Yes,” he says too quickly before he regains his lazy composure, his mouth twitching into that arrogant grin that makes him so throat-punchable. “Now, say it. What are you agreeing to?”
I pull in huge amounts of air, trying to chase away the feeling that I’m drowning.
Talk slowly. Think before you speak.
After I’ve gathered my thoughts and have my statement ready, I say, “I agree that, when the time comes, I’ll give you permission to touch a part of me that will be specified right before the act itself.” I peer up at him, terrified he’ll hear the pounding of my duplicitous heart and know I’m tricking him. “Your turn.”
“I agree to my part of the bargain. You will remain at the academy, and Inara won’t touch you.”
A wave of magic rolls over us as the bargain is struck, leaving a metallic taste in my mouth and doubt in my heart.
His eyes glitter with dark intent as he adds, “No one will touch you until it’s my turn.” I flinch as he suddenly leans so close I can feel the heat of his lips against my ear. “And then, Summer, I promise you, it won’t matter where I touch you, do you understand? You’ll be ruined, utterly, completely, permanently destroyed, and the Winter Prince will watch.”
I force my eyes downcast. Let him believe I’m cowed into submission. That he forced me into a terrible bargain I now regret. Whatever it takes to feed his demented soul long enough to keep my spot in the academy.
Once he fulfills his end of the deal, I know he’ll wait before demanding I fulfill mine. Savoring the secret, shared knowledge that he can touch me whenever he wants. Have me whenever he wants.
Typical Evermore, using a mortal as an unwitting pawn in a game where we couldn’t begin to fathom the rules.
But I’m not a mortal—not technically, anyway—and if my hunch was correct, I’ll beat him at his own twisted game.
If not, I’m so very, very screwed.
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