Page 138 of Double Bucked

The crown makes me look like the flowers are rising from my dress, growing out the top of my head. A royal of the wild. Delicate and feral all at once.

This is it. The moment I’ve been waiting for my entire life.

Now that it’s happened, I can hardly feel my bones. My body is so light it’s as though I’m floating a centimeter above it.

I turn to take a step, but I stumble. One of the Belleflower Princesses catches me.

“Are you alright?” she asks. Her little voice pitches with concern.

“I’m fine,” I say. “Just…I think I need some air.”

The room tilts, shudders, and slowly settles. When my vision readjusts, I find myself staring at the goblet on my desk.

What was in that drink, exactly?

My center of gravity has rolled away from me, like a spool unraveling on a string. I reach out to catch it, but a hand captures my wrist and tugs me forward.

“We don’t have time,” my stylist informs me. “We have to get you on the float.”

I trip over my feet, and time suddenly speeds up very fast.

44

RANSOM

“Ransom.”

Warm breath on my skin. The weight of his body on mine. The press of Everett’s lips on my throat. One kiss. Then another. Each kiss firm. Demanding. A mark on my throat that doesn’t leave even when his lips pull back.

He whispers against my skin, “Dragonfly.”

Claiming me with his words. His mouth. Lips turn into teeth. The sharp scrape of teeth grazes the hollow of my throat. I hear myself moan and arch back, tilting my chin upward, inviting him closer.

Hell. Not inviting. Begging. Begging with my body. Begging for more.

“Riley Ransom.”

His voice is loud now. It punctures through my thoughts and jolts my eyes open.

A dream.

I’m dreaming.

Was dreaming.

Now, I’m wide-awake, sweat cold on my back, morning wood tenting the sheets.

Everett doesn’t flinch. He’s dressed, sitting on the edge of the bed. He has an earbud pinched in his fingers, the one he must’ve plucked out of my ear to wake me up. “Good. You’re up.”

“Yep. Huh. What. I’m up.”

Sure am.

Everett is back to black. Black pants. A black button-up shirt. Freshly shaved. Clothes without a single crease. He laces his shoes up tightly into neat, little bows.

I sit up, pull up my knees, and rub my hand roughly over my face. I clear a tumbleweed out of my throat. “Where’s Claire?”

“That’s the question of the hour. She was gone when I woke up. But she left this.”