Igniting Cinder (The Lost Girls, #3)

by Holly Roberds

You can take the girl out of Midnight, but she’ll still have a weird affinity for Tim Burton aesthetics the rest of her life.

I’m convinced the feline belongs to Satan himself because the cat loves pulling out our garbage on the kitchen floor, hissing at me, scratching up the furniture, and peeing on my sheets. Therefore, I dubbed thee Lucifer.

I would never actually hurt a cat, but I’m damned close to finding a black-market vendor of curses so I can make Lucifer believe he’s always wet even when he isn’t. Or see cucumbers that aren’t there. I heard cats hate cucumbers. Something to annoy the ever-loving shit out of the feline devil, the way he does to me.

I’ve decided to call my neither region “Iron Maiden” because it’s metal as fuck, and I'm sure it will remind me that I’m foreboding and untouchable.

“Worried, my little spooky babe?” “The hell did you call me?” He pushes off from the door frame and saunters into my room. “Would you prefer goth girl? Gloom cookie? Shadow pup? Sparky?”

All I can do is swallow down over the lump stuck in my throat. Flutters in my Iron Maiden hint that he might be capable of getting me off just like this, describing what he would do to me.

“Don’t be like that, my little black cloud of cuddles.

Shit, we should make a safe word. Pineapples? Pumpkin spice? Stop touching me in my sensitive feely place?

I have a fleeting thought that I’m in real danger of letting her cover me in honey and spanking me with a tennis racket while a women’s knitting club watches us fuck isn’t out of bounds.

Prince Charming. Came into this world a regal heir. Taken out of this world by a human girl's derriere. RIP me.

Well, we have that in common, my little black parade.

“I would have preferred Vegas.” “Ohh with an Elvis impersonator?” Kai chimes in hopefully. “Sure,” I shrug. “Whatever blows your tits off.” Kai grins at Jack. “She treats me so well.”

“Queen Mistress,” he repeats. His lids lower. “My nightshade nymph.”