Two girls. Two secrets.
Only one can survive.
Years before Nelle Wychthorn plans her escape, Tabitha Catt may unearth something in a Horned God's lair that is the key to freedom.
Desperate to save her beloved aunt from a dark curse, Tabitha is out t...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Mr. Whiskers had daggers, a strange bone-white color and intricately carved. The blades were serrated and vicious-looking, and they were casually tucked into his belt. Not exactly safe practice, especially being at a dance. He was breaking so many Health and Safety Regulations, it'd take a day to fill in the paperwork. My mouth was beginning to part to tell him that—that for safety reasons he'd better sheath them, or put them back in the barracks where no doubt he was billeted for the weekend—when he got to me first.
His head whipped my way. His voice was deep and rough, like a sheet of falling gravel, and filled the space between us. "What the fuck are you doing lurking in the kitchen cool room?"
Lurking?
I frowned, my hackles rising.
I stamped deeper into the room, moving closer to the feral man. "What are you doing here?" I flung straight back at him, attempting to fold my arms across my chest, and then giving up because the arm sleeves were too tight to allow the movement.
His anger had melted away and was now replaced with cocky self-assuredness as he fully turned to face me, his taut muscles relaxing as he widened his stance. "Waiting for someone, are you? Toolface perhaps?"
"Toolface?" I repeated slowly, tilting my head and wondering who in hells he was referring to.
"Mr. Boy-Band. Mr. Frost-Tipped boy." He enunciated the word boy in a challenging way, cocking an eyebrow and daring me to say otherwise. "And what was all that back there at the dance?" he asked, hooking a thumb over his shoulder. "That hand thing you were doing with Toolface."
At first, I wasn't sure what he was talking about. I also wanted to slap the scruffy beard right off his face for continually calling Tomas 'Toolface.'
"You need to leave. I am, indeed, waiting for someone," I said frostily, jabbing my forefinger at the door to the room. "Obviously, not you," I tacked on for spiteful good measure.
"Someone..." he said, ignoring my request and chewing the word as if he'd been forced to eat something disgusting like soggy brussels sprouts swimming in burnt, bitter gravy. He moved away to the crates Tomas had brought from his estate. He half-bent over, snatched a glossy red apple up, and before crunching down on it, asked, "Who the fuck are you waiting for?"
For some bizarre reason, perhaps simply to mess with him, I tipped my chin up and said airily, "I'm waiting for my...my...boyfriend?" Then cursed myself for the way my voice rose up like a question.
"Boyfriend?" I heard the amusement in his voice. "Don't believe you."
"It's true," I shot back, stamping my foot and huffing like I was seven years old again.
The hand holding the apple lowered to his lean waist. A delicious smirk curved his lips. His eyes gleamed brightly like a lion raising its head over the savanna sensing prey. "Then why are you blushing?"
