For a second, I thought I'd imagined it. You know that surreal moment when your brain refuses to accept that someone had just spoken in your general direction?
Yeah, that. My mind tried to file the insult somewhere under "dream sequence" or "auditory hallucination caused by too much stress and not enough carbs," but when I opened my eyes, reality greeted me like a slap to the ass.
There she was—the mouth behind the venom.
She couldn't have been older than me, maybe younger by a month or two, though she carried herself like she'd invented cruelty and charged royalties for its use.
Her outfit was a gothic mirror of my own sins—black camisole, short skirt, lace stockings, and dainty shoes that looked custom made for stomping egos.
Her skin was pale enough to make marble jealous, her chest nearly flat, and her hair—Saints preserve me—two twin tails curled like they were sculpted by a sugar-addled artist hell-bent on making me question the concept of individuality.
Emerald green eyes sparkled with mischief and malice in equal measure, and when she smiled—oh, it wasn't a smile so much as a declaration of war written in lipstick.
She had pointed ears as well—another elf, because of course she was.
A tiny, silver collar gleamed against her throat as she tilted her head, sizing me up with the kind of glee one usually reserves for impending car crashes.
She leaned forward, voice rich with mockery. "Saints preserve me," she said, voice pitched loud enough for anyone within ten yards. "Is that you? Gods, it's rancid. How does a person smell like that and still walk upright? I swear I just tasted rot in the back of my throat."
She actually gagged, bending slightly, shaking her head as though trying to fling the scent off her senses. "Disgusting," she muttered, "absolutely disgusting."
For a heartbeat, I nearly lost it. Not in anger—no, not yet. Instead I laughed. A real, bright, undignified laugh that tore out of me before I could stop it. It startled her, just a flicker in her eyes. "Saints above," I said between wheezes, "they've started cloning me. The world isn't ready for this level of beauty and bad decisions."
"Oh, don't pretend this is normal," she snapped, waving her hand again, still shielding her nose. "Honestly, darling, do they not have baths in whatever gutter you crawled out of? Gods, how does anyone stand within three feet of you without crying?"
"You're still here." I said it quietly, and something flashed in her eyes. Her jaw tightened but her posture didn't to budge.
"Only because I'm trying to understand what kind of delusion it takes for someone to walk around like this without shame," she hissed. "I mean just look at you. A limp-dicked pretty boy who couldn't find his own cock with a map and a lantern. Fucking pathetic."
I had to admit, that one stung a little. I blinked at her, still grinning, because admitting she'd landed a hit would've been sacrilege.
She stood there glaring like she expected me to snap, expecting me to spit something back just as filthy, just as sharp, as if she could pull me down into whatever game she was intending to play.
I saw the path she wanted—two idiots screaming slurs across the room until one of us cried or swung first—and saints above, it would've been so easy to drag her there by the throat. But I also saw how pathetic it would make me look. How small. How desperate. And I'd played that game enough times in my life to know exactly how it ended.
So Instead I sat up from the couch, stretching once before turning on my heel and brushing past her—making sure my shoulder hit hers on the way.
The contact was deliberate, satisfying. I didn't even look back as I strolled toward Brutus, who was half-slumped against one of the room's massive pillars, drinking what looked to be that same glowing sludge Atticus had given me once before.
"You holding up, big guy?" I said as I approached.
Brutus was just beginning to answer—something about the taste of Atticus's concoction being like fermented regret—when the sharp staccato of footsteps echoed across the marble floor.
I didn't need to turn around to know who it was. The temperature in the room dropped by a degree then, the air tightening with the kind of tension that only teenage arrogance and expensive perfume can produce.
Before I could blink, a hand grabbed my shoulder and spun me around.
It was that girl again.
This time, she wasn't smirking. Her fingers clenched around my collar, yanking me closer until I could count the flecks of emerald in her irises. Her breath smelled of mint and murder.
"What's wrong, sweetheart?" I asked, batting my lashes. "Did I bruise your ego when I brushed by, or is this your way of asking for a dance?"
"You've got some nerve walking away from me," she hissed, her breath sweet in that expensive, vicious way nobles cultivate. "Did your tiny little courage shrivel up along with your—" she flicked her eyes downward "—everything else you pretend to have?"
I blinked once, slow, then let a lazy smile unfurl across my lips like silk spilling off a bed. "Oh, darling. If I knew you were craving my attention this badly, I'd have thrown you a treat. Maybe a toy. Something squeaky to keep you occupied."
That earned me a shove. Not a hard one, but enough to make my pulse spike with something hot and electric. "Tell me something, pretty boy," she said. "Do you dress like this because you want attention, or because you're too much of a pussy to pick a hole? I mean gods, just pick a side already."
For a moment—just a moment—the humor faltered. Not outwardly; I was still smirking, but I felt it, that tiny needle slipping under the skin. Her words slithered through me with surgical precision, finding the places I didn't talk about, the ones I joked around to keep from touching.
I laughed anyway, because that's what I do. "Oh, please," I purred. "Choosing sides is what boring people do. I like to stand right in the middle, makes everyone nervous."
She tilted her head, eyes sparkling with mock sympathy. "So that's it, huh? A confused little cock-tease strutting in stolen skirts because he can't decide if he wants to suck it or ride it. How pathetic." And there it was again—that sting, sharper now, threading through my ribs. I hated that she could see it. "Oh, what's wrong?" She continued. "Did I hit a nerve? What, you gonna cry?"
I opened my mouth to retort, but she beat me to it—with laughter.
Saints above, that laugh. It wasn't joy. It wasn't humor. It was the shrill, pompous cackle of someone who'd just discovered they could set fire to butterflies and thought it art. It filled the hall, echoing off marble, slicing through the background noise until it was the only sound that existed.
I felt something twitch in me—just behind the eyes.
She stepped in, I stepped in, and before I knew it our foreheads slammed together with a muted crack, both of us pushing, grinding pressure against pressure like two spoiled cats locked in a territory dispute. Her breath washed over my mouth—mint, spite, and arrogance—while mine hit back, hot and daring.
That's when Brutus stepped between us, his massive frame cutting the light. He looked down at her with that quiet, dangerous calm that made lesser men reconsider their life choices.
"Step back," he said with a grunt.
She pulled back before blinking up at him, that same smirk returning to her face. "Oh? The meat-shield speaks. How adorable." Her gaze swept over him—broad shoulders, scarred arms, a mountain in motion. "Tell me, do you grunt like that when you're balls-deep in his ass, or are you too busy wiping his tears?
Brutus's jaw tightened, the veins in his neck standing out like steel cables. "Not your concern."
She giggled, a light, cruel sound. "Oh, but it is. Look at you—so stoic, so tragic. I practically live for this sort of thing."
The room was shifting now—voices lowering, footsteps pausing. A small crowd was gathering, drawn to the scent of blood in the water.
"You mouthy little shit. Shut up or I'll—" he started, voice thick with contempt, but she cut him off with a laugh sharp enough to slice diamonds.
"You'll what? Rape me?" She licked her lips like she was savoring the word, eyes rolling in mock ecstasy. "Big surprise...another cock-swinging brute who thinks the only way to shut a woman up is to shove his sad little prick in her face until she chokes on it. Typical. Men are all the same, loud, limp, and convinced their dicks are magic wands that turn opinions into obedience."
My heart thudded once, hard.
The laughter around us was faint but growing, a low ripple like distant thunder. I could feel it, the tension threading through my fingers, the heat coiling up my spine. She wanted a reaction, and Saints help me, I was ready to give her one.
My hands curled into fists.
She saw it, of course. That little flicker in my eyes. She grinned, shifting her stance subtly, weight sliding to her back foot. "My my, look at that," she said, voice dripping with false innocence. "The doll thinks he's dangerous."
Brutus muttered something under his breath, probably a warning, but the blood was already rushing in my ears. The world had narrowed to her smirk, her laugh, that glint in her collar catching the golden light.
I moved.
Or at least, I tried to.
Before my foot even hit the marble, a hand shot out and caught my wrist in a grip like tempered steel.
I froze, head snapping sideways. Iskanda stood there, her expression a masterclass in exasperated poise. One eyebrow arched high enough to scrape the heavens, her other hand resting lightly on her hip.
"Do tell me you weren't about to make me fill out another report," she said, voice calm but laced with something dangerous.
Across from us, the girl had been intercepted too. Quentin's hand rested on her shoulder, fingers firm, posture casual in that unnervingly elegant way of his. His tone was soft but carried weight. "Elvina," he said. "Breathe."
She gave him a pout so artificial it could've been painted on porcelain. "But he—"
"I said breathe."
Elvina's lips twisted, caught somewhere between annoyance and reluctant obedience. She inhaled dramatically, like the air itself had personally offended her, then exhaled with a huff that would've made any dragon proud.
"There," she said sweetly. "See? I'm calm."
Quentin smiled without humor. "Marvelous. Now try staying that way."
Iskanda's grip loosened slightly on my wrist, though her gaze didn't soften. "And you," she murmured, "should learn when someone isn't worth your breath."
I swallowed whatever witty retort was clawing its way up my throat and forced a grin. "What can I say? I have a weakness for attention."
She sighed through her nose, that delicate kind of disappointment only professionals and mothers can perfect. "Apparently."
The room was still watching us, the silence thick with unspoken bets and whispered commentary. The golden chamber had turned into a stage, and for once, I wasn't sure if I wanted the spotlight.
I glanced back at Elvina who blew me a kiss. That grin of hers—sharp and delighted—was the last thing I saw before Quentin's fingers tightened just enough to make her wince.
"Enough," he said softly.
I stood there, chest heaving, tasting blood where I'd bitten my tongue. Gods, I hated her.
…And the worst part? She knew it.