So unbelievably screwed.
Fae bargains are notoriously one sided. There’s an entire third year course dedicated to teaching mortals how to navigate them, and shadows that major in Fae law and specialize in bargains are a burgeoning field in New York and other Fae hotspots.
True Fae bargains are bound by powerful magic that cannot be undone. Ever.
Which is why more than one mortal has gone to a bar near the Shimmer and woken up hungover and bound to the Fae for a lifetime, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.
“Just a trivial one,” he assures me, his voice slow and rich and seductive, a trick the Fae use to mesmerize us into complacency. “Agree and I will convince the school that another Winter Court Evermore used their powers to save you. You won’t be expelled. You’ll still be property of the Winter Prince, and he won’t go to war over you. All in all, you will gain more than I in this deal.”
Liar. Everything inside me screams to deny him immediately. But if his bargain means I can stay at the school and Valerian doesn’t suffer . . .
“What would you require in return?” A heavy feeling settles over me as soon as I ask the question.
“A small thing, really.” His lips curl at the edges, but my focus is riveted to his eyes and the darkness that simmers there, a kind of cold cruelty that burrows deep into my core. “Let me touch you.” My throat shudders as I try to swallow, everything inside me—everything—recoiling from his suggestion. “What? Now?”
“No, not now, Summer.” His intense gaze slides to my traitorous lower lip, which I’m shocked to discover is trembling. “What fun would that be? But there will come a time when I demand you give me permission. This agreement will guarantee you do.”
My thoughts race as I try to understand his game. I know allowing him to touch me gives him some sort of power over me—and that all of this is probably just some twisted Fae possessive crap. Two boys in a sandbox who are surrounded by toys but only want the same one.
It doesn’t matter that the shovel is broken and doesn’t even hold sand. It doesn’t matter that the shovel doesn’t want to be played with. It doesn’t matter that there are a million newer shovels.
All that matters is that Hellebore wants to take something from Valerian.
Of course I’m going to say hell to the no.
Hellebore gives an impatient sigh, and then a tendril of ivy slides along the edge of my jaw, curls over my chin, and forcibly turns my head to look into his strange eyes.
“Do not think for a moment that denying me permission to touch you will somehow make your life easier. You’re already trapped in my web, struggling will only make it worse. You can either make it fun for the both of us or simply fun for me.”
I grit my teeth as the end of the vine drags across my bottom lip, but deep down I know he speaks some truth.
Valerian would absolutely, without a doubt, drag his court and kingdom to war for me.
The thought makes me sick. And yet, as much as I want to give in and stop this madness, I know I will never willingly let someone gain that kind of control over me.
Ever.
He might make me his slave, but he can’t control me unless I let him.
I sink against my ivy prison, ready to deny his request and screw the consequences, when Ruby zips toward us with her teeth bared. She’s holding a stick bigger than she is and promising Hellebore’s death.
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.