Page 71 of Death Game: Supernatural Battle

“To Frannie’s fashion show,” he said. “Pissing me off by putting my mate on the catwalk is pointless if I don’t attend.”

True.

“And if other men get to see you walking in a fashion show, I’m sure as fuck making sure they know you’re taken.”

I bit my lip. “Jealous, are we?”

“With you, always. Jealous of the time you’re not with me. Jealous of the conversations you share with others. Jealous of the way you let your butler do everything for you but won’t let me serve you a plate of food.”

The words were delivered without a trace of bitterness. What was I meant to say to that? I hovered uncertainly.

“Everyone will be there,” he said, continuing on as if he hadn’t admitted to being jealous of Fred running around after me.

I licked my lips. “When you sayeveryone…”

“My parents too.”

I ran my hand through my hair. “Great.”

“I’ll see you in a couple of hours,” Kyros said as I grabbed my phone and walked to the door. Still shaken, I waved overhead in response.

The vampire called after me. “Basilia?”

Wrenching to a halt, I peered back at him. “Yeah?”

He bowed low. “I would be honoured to join you during your thrall.”

Heat filled my cheeks as he straightened and fixed me with a smouldering look that I immediately titled Ovary Magnet.

“Okay. Good then,” I said breathlessly.

Dammit.

His lips curled.

“Bye,” I blurted, turning to run down the stairs as fast as my suddenly feather-light body could carry me.

* * *

My butter-blonde hair was dead straight, falling to just below my breasts.

Maybe it would cover whatever garish outfit Francesca put me in. As soon as I’d entered the main tent on the cordoned-off main street in Green, she’d marched me to a director’s seat in make-up and disappeared.

I’d done a few catwalks for charity during my final years in high school. And some of thosebuy a datetype events where they made everyone parade around before the auction.

“Look up,” the make-up artist said.

My look was smoky eyes with a deep-plum lip. Nothing like the diamanté crap I’d expected her to subject me to. The artist didn’t bat a false eyelash at the scarring on my neck before covering it with goop.

“So glad you could make it,” Francesca said on the other side of the curtain.

A woman sniffed. “You paid me to be here.”

No. She. Didn’t.

If there was one voice whinier and more nasally than Francesca’s, it was the voice of Harriet Gregorian.

“Look down,” the artist said.

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