how to read emotions. Mortals are ridiculously easy to figure out. Well, most of the time. Maybe it’s the enchantments she’s wearing, but Roxie doesn’t give anything away.
“I highly doubt that,” she says. She takes the pajamas from me and slips on the nightgown. I hate to admit how good she looks in it, like some housewife pinup. I half expect her to smile and ask What are you thinking now? but instead she looks back to the weapons and bites her lower lip. “So you’re an assassin. Of faeries.”
“And for a faerie,” I say. “My mother is the Faerie Queen.”
“Shakespeare?”
“Something like that. But a little more scandalous.”
“So that makes you a faerie, too?”
If I were being dramatic, I’d take my blade and cut a line in my palm to show her I bleed red, but that’s a little too Hollywood for right now and besides, she probably wouldn’t get it.
“No. I’m mortal.”
“So how are you . . . ?”
I flop down on the sofa and grab a bottle of bourbon from the table. A snap of my fingers and two tumblers appear. I fill one with a few fingers and hand it to Roxie. She shakes her head, so I fill it to the brim and drink half in a gulp.
“I was stolen,” I reply. The bourbon won’t kick in fast enough to make this conversation bearable, but at least I can swim in the taste.
“Stolen?” She sits on the other sofa and curls her legs under her.
“Stolen. At least, that’s what I assume. Mab won’t tell me much about it.”
“Who’s Mab again?”
“My mother. The Faerie Queen. Shakespeare’s muse.”
“Right.”
“Anyway,” I continue, downing the rest of the bourbon, “I quickly learned that I didn’t fit in here. I mean, it was pretty obvious—I had to sleep, for one thing. And I aged. I think I was ten when Mab finally told me she wasn’t my true mother. That’s honestly how the conversation went, too: That was a good kill, love. And you should know you’re not truly my daughter. She wouldn’t tell me anything else. So I dropped it. I learned early on with her that trying to fish out information is impossible.”
“So that’s been your whole life? Training and killing? What about, I don’t know, human things? Like friendship. Or—”
“Or love?” I cut in. I know where this is going. “Not really. I had what you’d call a ‘fucked-up childhood.’”
She laughs to herself. “Haven’t we all?” But she doesn’t press the subject. Instead, she leans over and grabs the bourbon and pours herself a three-quarter glass. Definitely my type of girl.
“You know,” she says, “for being some heartless assassin, you don’t seem half bad.”
She’s been holding my gaze the entire conversation, but the moment she says that, she glances away. Is she flirting with me? And for that matter, am I flirting back? The alcohol is slowly kicking in, and I feel warm for what feels like the first time in days. I’d kill for another bath—literally—but there’s still work to be done.
“Thanks,” I reply. “But you really haven’t spent any time with me.”
She looks back. “From what it sounds like, that will change. I mean, I’m sort of a wanted girl, aren’t I?”
“You are.” I can’t help it—with the warmth of the bourbon and the warmth of the butterflies, I let myself grin. I so want to hop over to that sofa and put an arm around her and kiss her neck. If this were any other situation, any other seduction, I would have. But for some stupid reason, I don’t want to sleep with her. I don’t want a one-night stand. I want to keep her around.
“Anyway,” I continue, before this can veer into territory I might regret—which again is strange, as I don’t usually regret any of my actions, “I have some more work to do before calling it a night. You can stay here for now. We’ll figure out something more comfortable tomorrow. You okay with the sofa?”
She nods. I can tell she’s a little disappointed, but I don’t trust myself around
Rachael Keogh
A. J. Cronin
Ronin Winters
Melanie Schuster
Tracy Wolff
T.A. Chase
John Fowles
Loki Renard
Allison Rios
Lorhainne Eckhart