The Darkest Wolves - A.K. Koonce Page 0,26

my eyes.

“As if anyone could hear us right now. The wolves in my realm are probably picking up on Moaning Martha in there.” My arms fold hard.

“Are you jealous?” Romey asks, leaning against the wall at my side as he folds his arms and really studies me.

“Uh, I guess I’m supposed to be. Yeah. So jealous right now.”

His smirk that’s normally so cruel is almost infectious. It pulls at my own lips simply from seeing him smile. He so rarely really smiles. He smirks and cackles all day but so seldomly ever seems happy.

“You should be jealous,” Zilo snaps, ripping the meager happiness right from us. “You’re losing, Cersia.”

Losing. Wow. Okay. I hadn’t realized a one-night stand was the prize here.

“She should be about in the mornings,” Avian advises.

What does that even mean? Be about what in the mornings. Be about what?

“Yeah, and she should wear more perfume. It’s about the pheromones,” Roman adds with a glint in his pale green eyes that tells me he’s being a total cock eater right now.

“That’s a good idea,” Zilo says while pushing his glasses up to really think this puzzle out. “Maybe tighter pants. Tight pants are always good on a mate. Shows the bearing hips.”

Bearing hips?

The three of them nod dickishly in unison.

“No underwear too,” Roman adds to my list with another exaggerated I’m-A-Fucking-Tool nod.

“How do you know the difference?” Avian asks.

“It’s a panty intuition. You wouldn’t get it,” Roman says without hesitation and total honesty.

Panty. Intuition.

Give me a fucking break.

I glare at his obnoxiously pretty face. Him and his besties are a happy little triad of stupidity. And I’m just the voyeuristic idiot watching as they thoroughly fuck me into another bad idea.

“Maybe I should forgo the clothes entirely,” I suggest with a shrug.

“That might help, really.” Roman’s eat-shit smile is so taunting it’s infuriatingly cute.

It’s a nice reminder that I still hate him.

Intensely.

“Ya know, I’ll figure out how to get the petty attention of a Prince myself. I don’t need your puppy clicker training on how to make a man notice me. Thanks.” I’m walking away while they’re mumbling between dramatic sex noises about how women are oblivious to what men really want.

Like it’s hard.

Eleven

Dueling Seduction

Zilo explains to me that the Prince of Hell has a very elaborate morning schedule:

Fucking.

Eating.

Dueling.

Yes, men are complex creatures indeed.

And that’s why I’m lingering in the shadows of the dueling arena for his guard to take the final blow and bow out of the current match Prince Ravar is kicking his ass in. Finally—fucking finally—the guard takes a hard fall to the black soot, puffs of glittering dirt fanning up around him.

And he doesn’t get up as the Prince pins his shining onyx blade to the center of the stocky man’s burly throat.

“Good move, my Prince,” the guard comments respectfully.

The Prince’s smile is a cutting thing. Almost as sharp as his weapon. It should signal what comes next. But it doesn’t.

The blade hauls back, and with as much force as he can muster, Prince Ravar rails the metal clean through the man’s chest.

An empty breath is the only sound as the dozens of spectators watch their leader murder his own guard right before their eyes. The man’s gaze is big and terrified as he clings to the blade impaling him, and he stares up at the one person who should have his best interest at heart.

And I wonder if that’s what he’s thinking just as the shining light in his eyes fades out.

My own heart tightens, and the air in my lungs has been missing for a long moment now.

It hurts.

But I can’t pause.

I can’t stop the charade for even a second.

Because like Roman said, I’m losing. And that means I’m failing men just like this guard.

With my head held high, I stride out into the ashen arena. I feel the attention of the royals and the kingdom above watching every step I take out toward the cruel man wiping fresh blood from his blade.

“He wasn’t really much of an opponent,” I say with the nastiness of those words stinging my tongue.

The Prince turns, and I know the moment he really sees me. Because that sheer mating gown is finally coming in handy. He seems to note the way it clings to the flawless shape of my breasts and the nice curve of my hips.

While the men wanted me to blend in to this culture of practicality in their dark pants and worn shirts, that’s not what will get me noticed.

And I am being