Page 4 of Fake Fae-Ancée

The room around me swayed slightly as I found my uniform shirt on the floor and picked it up. The P.A.S.H. uniform blue, that had always comforted me, dampened my rising panic a little. It spiked again, however, when I held the shirt at arm’s length. The fabric in the back was completely shredded.

"What the..."

I put the shirt aside, picked up the Kevlar vest — standard equipment for Hunters on duty. Last night's call had only been a code 03. Standard. Minor breach, I remembered vaguely, probably just a disruption. Most likely some hyper nervous home-owner scared of his own shadow.

The Kevlar, too, had been cut open like the lid of a sardine can. I stared at the sliced vest and uniform shirt in my hands. Then down to the piece of carpet between my feet. My bra lay there. Black, with pink lace. At least one piece of my undergarments had resurfaced. The damage was not noticeable at first, but the fabric at the back was also cut in two.

Dammit, one of my favorite bras!

My face turned cold, my gaze wandering to the sleeping heap of guy on the bed behind me.

What had he done this time?

* * *

Outside the bedroom,scattered on the floor like random breadcrumbs in a fairytale forest, I found my phone and service belt. The latter was complete. Service weapon, badge, pepper spray, taser. When I put it on, the dizziness subsided a little. As always in uniform, I transformed into a better version of myself. One that made a difference. I felt stronger right away.

My phone, on the other hand, looked bruised, with two brand-new cracks running across the screen. I frowned. The phone had been brand new. I frowned some more when I spotted forty unread messages and twenty-seven missed calls. Ten of them alone from the chief.

I pocketed the phone away and decided to face whatever music there was later. Today was my day off. The chief could wait. I needed to think. And to find the bathroom in this place, and quickly.

This took me a while. Kalinin’s place was ginormous. I crossed a huge living room in all shades of white, gray and black. A look out the panoramic windows at the skyline of the city confirmed my suspicion — this was a freaking penthouse. A bachelor pad dripping in understated luxury. My stomach churned when I just looked at the hideous black leather couches in the living room that probably cost more than I earned in a year. I knew Kalinin was loaded — after all, he was a damned ex-prince. But his bullshit gig as the favorite consulting detective of Metropolitan P.A.S.H. Force was apparently paying off, too.

The bathroom on the far end of the apartment was luxurious in the same minimalist way. As I washed my hands, I glowered back at myself in the mirror, aka the entire wall behind the white marble sink. I looked like I’d slept in a cardboard box under a bridge. My hair was a bird’s nest, some strands tangled in the tips of my pointy ears. All those nightshifts lately didn’t do anything for my complexion. I ran a hand through my hair, untangled the strands at my ears, trying to generally smooth things out a bit…

…when my finger caught on something.

I froze. I lowered my left hand.

A shiny rose-gold band on my left ring finger stared back at me.

Adrenaline pinched my heart. Flooded first my chest and then the rest of my body with paralyzing cold.

A ring.

No!Hisring.

All I could hear was my pulse thudding like a war drum.

His ring. On my hand.

His damn ring!

A croaking sound escaped my throat, like something was stuck in there.

Frantically, I tried to push the ring off my finger, but it clung rock solid on me like a Chinese finger trap. The three tiny diamonds set inside the rose-gold sparkled at me mockingly.

I stormed out of the door, down a slippery hall and back into the living room. On the far side my sword was leaning against the wall, wrapped in its combat holster.

My vision turned crimson. A murderous attack plan flared up in my brain that boiled down to: take sword, storm into bedroom and fillet Kalinin the way he deserved. I darted forward to grab my weapon, but a rumbling voice behind me had me stop dead in my tracks.

"You’re up,my little star."

I flinched, the last three words grating on me like fingernails on a chalkboard, and turned around.

Kalinin filled the door with his totally exaggerated six-foot-six frame. At least he’d had the decency to put on some clothes. A pair of long black pants covered his muscular legs and other things I preferred not to think about. He crossed his arms in front of his bare chest — show-off muscles bulging accordingly — and threw me his signature cocky-bastard-grin that never failed to send my blood pressure through the roof. That crooked, smug grin that said: I told you you'd come crawling back one day.

"What the hell, Kalinin?!" I held up my hand, fingers fanned out, his damn ring pointed at him as Exhibit A.

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