Page 37 of Crown of the Fae King

I sighed and plopped onto the bed. “You’re right. It’s getting terribly complicated around here.”

“Don’t even try to keep everyone straight. Just focus on our goals. Learn what O’Ryan is after and what frightened that fairy at Trinity College. Then destroy the bad fairy. All the rest is window dressing.”

At the sound of voices, we both turned toward the open door and watched Urban and Wickham coming up the stairs. The eighteenth-century man was dressed in his pretty blue kilt again.

I smirked. "As far as window dressing goes, I guess I shouldn’t complain…”

While the menwere still setting up the war room, Everly took me back into the city to finish my makeover. I thought that meant a haircut, though she'd promised it would take all day.

"I don't want to dye my hair," I told her. I already felt guilty for how much money had been wasted on my new wardrobe, let alone everything else. And I was pretty sure I couldn’t pull off her slick black ponytail look.

“Your color is good,” she lied with a smile. She and the stylist eyed my mousy-brown, grown-out layers as if they were interesting. “But you need something intentional. Something without a lot of upkeep. Something that won’t insult your wardrobe.”

The stylist glanced at my t-shirt and jeans.

“I didn’t want to get hair on my new clothes,” I explained.

When the woman stepped away, Everly bent to whisper in my ear. “I’m burning these as soon as you change out of them.”

My intentional haircutwas called a Blunt Collarbone.

My layers were cleaned up and left messy, but the bottom was whacked dramatically at my collarbones. A little longer than shoulder length, but not long enough for slick ponytails. I had to admit, I was stylin’. But when I said it to Everly, she forbade me from using that word again.

My vocabulary, it seemed, could use improvement too. But the chances of upgrading that were pretty slim.

Makeup was next. I usually only used mascara and maybe a little eyeliner, but now that I was in my thirties, my skin color wasn’t as uniform as it had once been. Everly assured me the heavy bag of products she paid for wouldn’t have to be a daily routine, but I’d have them when I needed them.

“Either your lying is getting worse,” I told her, “or my bullshit radar is getting better.”

She shrugged. “I’m probably getting worse.” Instead of heading for the entrance, she led me to the back of the salon and through an opaque glass door markedGrooming.

When we walked out two hours later, we were no longer friends.

I tooka cab back to the house and paid with the tip money I had left. The driver wasn’t happy about taking U.S. currency, even though I gave him a healthy tip, but we’d already arrived, and I was in no mood to give a shit.

Everly had a car and could drive off a cliff for all I cared.

I took my bags straight up to my room, tossed them in the closet, and put them out of my mind. I drew a hot bath, pulled down the shades, and soaked in the darkness, shedding at least one angry tear for every individual hair that had been ripped from my body.

My only satisfaction was that cursing at the top of my lungs, each time an inch of wax was stripped away, had left Everly mortified.

I fell asleep in the water. Thankfully, I was tall enough that I didn’t drown. My bath had cooled to body temperature, and I shivered while I dried myself, careful not to buff the angry red bits. “No thank you,” I said aloud to the idea of being a true European, and willed my hair to grow back fast.

Because I never again planned to be naked in front of another human being, I wrapped in a towel before stepping out of my bathroom, unsure if I’d locked my door.

I hadn’t.

More than half a dozen bags sat on the bed. I assumed they were from my torturer since no one else in the house had a penchant for shopping. Most of my anger had burned off in the tub so I wasn’t up to throwing another fit or tossing the bags out the door.

“If she went to this much trouble, I should at least take a look.” I went for the biggest bag first. Didn’t recognize the store name.

Four pairs of jeans. Two were blue. I tried them on without grabbing underwear first. They fit like gloves—made of butter. And in two of them, I was even able to kick a spot high on the wall. But better still, they looked as lovely as they felt and made my butt look like more than just a place to hang a couple of pockets.

I felt like a woman.

In jeans.

The next two bags had t-shirts and sweater vests, all in muted colors that could be layered and worn together—my style, but a thousand times better. And with my new haircut, I wouldn’t look like I was trying to look like a teenager.

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