In my head, I walk up to the chimera playing the flute like the badass I am, and he falls asleep at my feet. It’s supposed to be the defining moment of my life, a cool story to brag about for eternity.
But that’s not what happens at all.
40
The chimera growls, and I can feel the vibrations from that low rumble inside my bones. Closing my lips around the flute, I blow—
I don’t see the chimera’s paw until it’s too late. Claws snag the flesh of my shoulder, the force of his swat sending me tumbling toward the cliff. The flute jerks from my fingers. The prince calls my name.
Grabbing onto whatever I can hold, I stop my body a foot before the edge of the cliff. Fire rushes up my shoulder; a quick glance shows my sweater is shredded, furrows dug into my skin. Blood darkens the blue sleeve, turning it a soft purple.
“Run,” the prince orders. He stands between the chimera and me, one hand held up like a lion tamer. “Summer, get out of here.”
Ignoring him, I search for the flute. It must have rolled over the side of the cliff, and I find it on a ledge three feet down. Without hesitation, I leap below to grab it.
Don’t look down don’t look down . . .
Once the flute is safely in my hands, I glue myself to the side of the cliff. Rocks dislodged by my boots clatter ten stories below. Nausea clenches my stomach, my hands sweaty and clammy as I drag myself back up the cliff. Thankfully, adrenaline numbs the pain in my shoulder.
At the sight of me, surprise flickers across the prince’s face. The chimera must notice the prince’s focus shift, and he lunges.
A scream sparks in my chest. I shove the flute into my mouth and blow. The first two times nothing happens. Finger holes! Hands shaking, I adjust my sweat-slick grip so my fingers cover the holes and try again.
The moment I blow into the instrument, a sound fills the air. The most angelic, comforting tune I’ve ever heard. I almost stop, sure there’s no way my lips are making something so enchanting. The lion’s body grows rigid and then, slowly, sluggishly, he sits back on his hindquarters.
His bright honey-gold eyes are half-slits, a strange green glow emanating from them. Even though I know lions can’t smile, his feline lips are curved upward, his floppy pink tongue lolling to the side.
It’s working!
I draw closer as the prince glides around to his hind end. The raverous snake tail slides back and forth on the ground, but it too seems lulled by the music.
Drawing the vial out, he carefully secures the snake by its neck. The snake hisses, he slides the vial beneath its curved fang, and it’s done.
When he joins me, I notice the claw marks across his chest where the beast raked him. I try not to stare at the metallic silver blood dripping from his wounds. The sight nearly makes me stop playing the flute, but I keep my breaths coming despite my shock.
“The moment you stop playing,” he whispers, “we need to scale back down the cliff.” His gaze darts to my injured shoulder. “Can you climb?”
I nod.
His eyes narrow like he doesn’t believe me. There’s something strange about them, the silver band of iris tinged green—like the chimera’s.
His voice is soft as he begins to count.
One, two, three . . .
I pocket the flute and dive for the side of the cliff where we ascended earlier. The chimera snarls, awakened from its magical stupor. And it sounds pissed about the entire ordeal.
Right as I slide toward the edge, ready to flip around and start scaling back down, arms slide around my waist. Cold, strong, capable arms.
“This will be faster,” he murmurs. My stomach lurches as he picks me up with inhuman strength and dives toward the forest below.
The feeling of the earth leaving my feet sends a wave of panic crashing over me. A carpet of green trees grows closer with every breath. The sun is nearly set, only a sliver of fiery orange burning through the top of the forest canopy, dusky pink and red shafts spearing the air.
Midnight blue wings the same color as his hair beat the air in my periphery.
I’m not going to die because he has wings. The realization is followed by another. He has really cool, really sexy wings.
Once the thought settles into my brain, I relax in his arms. My fear melts away as I focus on the prince’s body touching mine. His cheek pressed against my cheek. His fingers splayed over my stomach.
Does he notice the way my new abs (thanks, Eclipsa) tremble at his touch? Does his body sing with excitement at being so close to me?
Oberon’s beard, I need to get a grip.
All too soon, the swampy mud squelches beneath my boots. But he doesn’t let go. If anything, his arms tighten.
Whoa.
My body responds, pushing into him. The feel of his cool, muscular form like a drug sizzling through my veins.
Oh, God. I like this feeling.
The pulse in my wrist throbs. My head spins as a hollow ache opens up inside my belly. The prince turns me to face him, or perhaps I do that on my own. It’s all jumbled. My name forms on his lips, is whispered so softly I think I imagined it.
Then he’s pressing me into the rocky cliff base. His wings—Holy Fae his beautiful midnight blue wings—spread wide behind him, encapsulating us. There’s something feral and raw about his expression that should scare me.
It really should.
But it doesn’t. Quite the opposite.
“Summer.” His voice is raspy and low, his breath a cold wind. His nostrils flare as he inhales me, his pupils enlarging at whatever he smells.
Knowing what he can do, I should be terrified this close to him. At the very least, I should despise him for the way he’s treated me. The secrets I know he keeps. But I’m not in control of my body or the way it reacts to him.
I reach up, capture his inky locks inside my fingers. He watches me while I tug softly, marveling at its silkiness.
A memory nibbles the surface of my mind.
“Why do you feel so familiar?” I whisper.
“Because I am.” His fingers trail over my cheek, my lips. I gasp as their iciness leach into the flesh of my neck. Down my throat. Over my collarbone. Despite his frigid skin, the goosebumps his touch conjures, my insides warm and puddle.
Everything feels so out of control.
This is madness; it makes zero sense. I’ve never felt this way about anyone. Or maybe I have . . . but when? Why do I get the feeling it was with him?
His lips skim my ear and I nearly collapse in his arms. A part of me knows he’s affected somehow by the flute. Knows I might be too. Knows—and doesn’t care.
This is right; so very right.
“You asked me earlier what I felt around you.” His lips drag down my neck, tasting me. His arms slide around my waist and pull me tight. “Every moment I’m around you, every time I hear your laugh, all I can think about is this. Touching you, holding you. The way you taste. I want to be near you always, Princess.”
A low, groaning sound slips from his mouth.
I want to ask him how that’s possible, when he so clearly hates me. But not right now.
Later.
Now I want his lips on mine. Reaching out, I touch his jaw. I shudder at the feeling of the sharp edge pressed into my palm. The way his bottom lip curls as the pad of my thumb grazes it. First on accident—then curiosity.
And all the while as I touch his face and breathe him in, one thought eclipses all others: I’ve done this before. A hundred times. A thousand. More.