Hex’s jaw works. His hair is pulled back fully, showing how his ears are already red with cold, his cheeks similarly rosy in the downright frigid air.
So when he deadpans, “It’s cold,” I snort.
He casts a look at me.
I spin away, fascinated by the edge of my glove.
“Halloween can be a chilly time of year as well,” the reporter presses.
I feel Hex’s eyes on me for one more beat before he shifts to the reporter. “I spend most of my time in Mexico,” he says.
“Mexico?” Paper flips as the reporter checks something. “Halloween’s presence was strongest in the US, I thought?”
“My mother helps her older brother oversee Día de Muertos,” he says. “So I stay down there sometimes to balance her responsibilities. And I—”
Dad swoops in. He lands a hand on Hex’s shoulder, rocking him, and my teeth clamp in a punch of protectiveness.
I take a step forward. Iris, with Kris by a space heater in the tent, watches me, but I purposefully don’t meet her eyes, fixed intently on Hex and my dad.
“We are eager to show the Halloween Prince all that Christmas has to offer,” he says. “Such as this tradition. We’ll see how Halloween fares against Christmas!”
I take another step.
Hex’s face is mild—except for the sharp pulse of his eyebrows. “I’m not made for cold.”
“Will you not be racing, then?” There’s all kinds of intention in the reporter’s tone.
Hex starts to sayNo,and I watch my dad’s grip tighten on his shoulder.
I’m next to them in a heartbeat. “Dad. Wren needs you.” Which is probably not a lie, but it’s the first thing I can think of and I honestly don’t care.
Dad looks down at me.
I’m so aware of his fingers gripping Hex’s shoulder that my vision starts to go red.
Dad gives Hex a friendly pat and nods at the reporter. “Of course. Excuse me.”
He walks away, snow crunching in his wake, and my eyes are on Hex’s coat, the part of it now wrinkled from my father.
My gaze scrambles over the crowd, finds Iris, locks on, and she immediately crosses back over to us. That split second of me wordlessly needing her and her instantly coming is familiar, but guilt sours my stomach. In a situation where she is arguably more victimized than I am, I’m still needing her to step in? God, I’m pathetic.
“Are you not participating in the race, then, Prince Hex?” The reporter is standing next to us. Camera at the ready.
Hex is staring at me. Curious. Wondering, probably, why I’m gasping, why I keep staring at his shoulder, why I haven’t said anything to him.
“I was not aware that it was expected of me,” Hex finally says.
Iris slides up between us. “Participating in the race isn’texpected,but think of the scandal if Halloween wins.” She links her arm through his, smooths the wrinkled spot on his coat, and I release a shuddering exhale.
Hex considers. His eyes don’t leave mine. Is it weird that the reporter is here, that Iris is here, but we’re only looking at each other? God, I still haven’tsaid anything.
“Are you racing, Princess?” Hex asks her. Again, watching me. “I’ll ride with you.”
She laughs, that perfected trill. “Not this year, unfortunately.”
The air shifts a breath before I can find the sense to look at her.
I see her wide, not-at-all-cordial grin. It’s a downright dementedsmirk.
