Page 84 of Fallen Star

How dare he try to psychoanalyze me? This monster who brought me here, claimed me, drank my blood, and now thinks he knows me?

I open my mouth to tell him I want to leave—to get as far away from him and his “insights” as possible—but something else entirely comes out instead.

“Since you’re apparently invested enough to have taken extreme notice of my varying interests, I want some things to keep me occupied,” I tell him.

His eyebrows rise slightly. “Things?”

“A wood whittling kit, for starters. And paint supplies. And a?—”

“A wood whittling kit?” he interrupts, laughing. “How quaint.”

“Are you going to let me finish?” I snap.

He raises his hands in mock surrender, his smirk still firmly in place. “Please, continue.”

“Sketch paper and pencils,” I tell him, rather enjoying his allowing me to make demands of him. “Watercolors too, with good brushes. Some clay would be nice—the kind that air dries, since I doubt you have a kiln lying around this place.”

“Anything else?” he asks, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“Yes, actually.” I lift my chin defiantly. “Thread and needles for embroidery. And yarn for knitting. Oh, and a garden plot.”

“A garden plot?” Now he looks genuinely surprised.

“Yes. Nothing big. Just enough space to grow some herbs and flowers. I took a class on medicinal herbs last spring,” I add, although I don’t mention that I only attended three sessions before getting distracted by archery.

“Interesting,” he says. “And what, exactly, do you plan to carve with your whittling kit?”

“Why can’t you move on from the wood whittling?” I ask, irritation rising inside me.

“Since you’re the one making demands, it’s fair I ask questions,” he says, though it’s clear from his tone that my demands are another source of amusement for him.

“What I carve is none of your business,” I say, because the truth is, I don’t know yet. I just need something—anything—to keep my hands busy while I brainstorm possible ways to get out of this place.

“You don’t know what you’re going to make,” he says, angering me further. “Do you?”

“I’ll figure it out.” I hold his gaze in challenge, putting the remainder of my cookie down. “I always do.”

“All right. I’ll consider it.” He stands, moving toward the door with that fluid grace that makes my stomach flip. “Although I suspect by the time your supplies arrive, you’ll have thought of a dozen new hobbies to pursue.”

“You’re making fun of me,” I accuse.

“Not at all.” He pauses at the door. “I find your determination fascinating. Now, finish your cookies and rest. Aethelthryth will come fetch you when you’re recovered enough to return to your room.”

With that, he’s gone, leaving me alone in his chambers with nothing but cookies, anger, and the unsettling feeling that Aerix sees far more of me than I want him to.

Zoey

With every cornerturned through the Night Court’s mirrored halls, I’m half expecting Aerix to materialize out of the shadows and hit me with another smug observation about my character flaws.

I shouldn’t let him get to me. Not the prince who drank my blood like it was fine wine, not the predator who delights in poking at my vulnerabilities.

But somehow, he does.

Victoria and Sophia are waiting in the common area, already dressed and ready for the day. Well, for the night. Which is day to the vampires.

“Well?” Sophia asks. “How are you? Are you okay?”

“Define what you mean by ‘okay,’” I say, since even though I’m physically recovering from Aerix’s drinking from me, I’llneverbe emotionally recovered.

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