“If this is a bargain, what’s the alternative?” I demand. “What if I don’t play the game?”
“Then you die now rather than later.”
“What about Juniper and Cove?”
“You read my note,” Cerulean replies.
All of us win—or none of us win. Meaning all three of us die now, executed while separated from each other. Fury snakes down to my fingertips, which caress the rope. I wheel toward him, our shadows colliding. “And if I win?”
“Then you win,” he says simply. “If your sisters play as nicely, each of you goes free.”
And this miserable sod calls that a fair deal. So far, these Faeries are meeting my expectations with aplomb.
My brain picks apart his statement, searching for a trick. Admittedly, Juniper is better at this. Then again, I’ve known blokes who minced their words to get into my knickers. Since I’ve got practice deciding the terms of how I get fucked, this is no different.
The wind picks up, beating the slit in my skirt. For the first time, Cerulean notices I’m wearing a cuff around my thigh. Mine’s a tad dented, but he fancies it just the same.
“Want it for your collection?” I barter. “I might be willing to hand it over.”
He raises his head, irony branding his face. “Haven’t you been taught by now? You shouldn’t bargain with a Fae.”
Very funny. “Since I’m past the point of no return, I’ll take the gamble. Besides, my family complains that I dive first and learn later; that’s how I broke my arm when I was fourteen. Turns out pixie dust haggled from a star peddler doesn’t make you fly, after all.”
“By all means, then. Raise the stakes.”
“I propose another rule change.”
“That you can’t win?” he volunteers.
“You’re a hoot,” I sneer. “Lemme rephrase. I’ll give you my favorite accessory if I get a free rule. An advantage that I can pull from my pocket whenever I need it.”
While holding my gaze, Cerulean skims his thumb along the cuff’s rim—and it’s a straight shot of adrenaline to the groin. My hips tighten defensively. Thing is, I’m aware he’s pretty. Most would use the term, sexy-pretty.
But I’ve got my dignity. Other than spreading for that trade poacher, I don’t bend over or simper for lowlifes.
Cerulean’s despicable soul trumps his looks. The more disgusting he acts, the more hideous his face gets. So my reaction has less to do with attraction and more to do with…what?
“It appears I’ve underestimated you,” he intones. “As for that scintillating trinket hugging your thigh, I prefer to have something else.”
“Then make me an offer.”
“A free rule for a free price. If you have the choice to decide later, so may I.”
In that case, we might cancel one another out, depending on how we play our cards. I don’t like it, but I’ll cross that bridge—dammit, no pun intended—when I come to it. I’ve got no clue what’s in store for me, so I need all the leverage I can get.
I agree with a nod. Cerulean inclines his own head, stimulated by this turn of events. True to his malicious culture, the prospect of adding another bargain to the mix tickles him pink.
I hate him. I hate him so much, I want it written on my tombstone. My disgust is absolute, full-bodied to the point of painful, roasting me from the inside out.
Yet unexpectedly and inexplicably, the hurt becomes mournful. An unbidden wistfulness stings my throat and extinguishes the heat. For the life of me, I can’t justify that.
Cerulean’s finger perches beneath my chin and levels my gaze with his. “What is this expression you wear?” he asks. “I don’t understand it.”
For once, he’s serious. I’d go so far as to say he’s being genuine, his gaze jumping all over my face, unspoken questions stacking like bricks. Whatever his reaction, it straddles the line between fascinated and troubled.
I’d like to ask my share of things, too. Why does it feel like we’ve stood this close to each other before? The night outside the wagon doesn’t count. I’m thinking further back, to an earlier time, which can’t be right.
I know why his touch repels me. But why does it sadden me?
