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February 12 - February 15, 2023
“Not so fast, Ava-bird. Happily-ever-afters, the real kind, almost never happen easily or without a few dragons getting in the way.” “I thought dragons weren’t real?” “Metaphorical dragons.” “What’s meta-forkful?” Serafina hides her laughter under a fake coughing fit. “Never mind. The point is, without a journey, without some struggle, a few challenges, and some metaphorical dragons—which Mummy will explain to you later—the happily-ever-after wouldn’t be so sweet.”
Kill me now. Someone, please, have the decency to run a sword through me or put poison in my coffee.
He seems built for it, though. Sturdy, responsible Phillip.” I don’t say what thought runs through my mind—that even sturdy and responsible people sometimes crack under pressure. In fact, sometimes it’s the ones you don’t expect.
“Kitty Kat, put in a good word for me with Princess here, would you? She seems to think I’m some kind of devil.” “Oh, I know you’re some kind of devil,” Kat says. “Just a handsome one.”
I try to shove Brit out of my mind, but it’s like closing a door on someone set on coming in, sticking their foot in the crack.
My words are sharper than perhaps they should be, and I’m not sure the anger burning in my chest is even because of Rafe. He’s simply the one standing closest to me, the one who had the misfortune to push me past my careful control.
Emotions are healthy—at least, that’s what my therapist says. But an argument could be made that a numb existence is better than trying to manage panic attacks.
Nothing helps me unwind like … work. Does this make me a nerd? Probably. Do I care? No.
“Let’s talk about my proposition from last night.” “You propositioned me last night?” I raise my brows, then shrug. “Must not have been memorable.”
“This week I agreed to be Rafe’s date to the Centennial Ball.” The room quiets, but the announcement doesn’t seem to have the power she hoped it would. I give her a small shrug. Her mother openly glares at me while her father just heaves a sigh, like she’s wasting his time, and opens his mouth to get on with his announcement. “And I’ve also agreed to marry him.” Well, that escalated quickly. That’s when the shouting truly begins.
Losing control, losing focus, and maybe losing a piece of myself.
With Rafe, I have no trouble speaking my mind, having opinions—strong ones, and voicing them unapologetically. We fight, we tease, we talk without inhibitions. Being around him is like I’ve been taken off mute and instead dialed up to a ten. With Rafe, I am Serafina at full volume. I’m brighter, stronger, more.
Kat’s face wears an earnestness so rare that I wonder if I should call the physician.
He needs a minute? I need a lifetime—not to recover, but I think I need a lifetime with him.
I huff out a breath of irritation, but Rafe, keeping one hand on my lower back, stretches the other out toward The Dane. This could go south very quickly. After staring coldly at Rafe for a few seconds, The Dane’s giant paw envelopes Rafe’s hand. I swear, I hear bones crunching. “Anders,” Rafe says. He knows The Dane’s real name? The Dane—Anders—only grunts, but he does loosen his grip and step back, giving Rafe the tiniest nod of something that might be approval. Or might just be a silent agreement that he’s not going to kill him. Right now, anyway.
“I’m choosing him, and I’m choosing to believe him. To at least give him a chance to account for this. He deserves that. And I deserve better than this.”
Time is bent when you’re in love. The days are sometimes sweet and slow, and then gone in a flash, left only as memories. It doesn’t just move forward, but you move through it, like wading through gelatin—in the best way possible, of course.
It’s rare for me to date and even more rare for me to date someone more than once. If I know I’m not interested, I just don’t see the point in investing my time and energy.
Alcohol had become her coping mechanism, more than I think she realized. But without drinking, she’s turned to other things. Namely: meddling. Specifically: in my life.
“And how, precisely, did Claudius go about this task?” Callum asks, looking as though he’s on the verge of laughter. I consider throwing the paperweight again. “With a specific list of qualities and characteristics I provided,” I say. “Tell me you didn’t make a spreadsheet,” Callum says. I say nothing. Because I did not make a spreadsheet. I made two.
“I’m sorry, but you can’t choose a wife based on a spreadsheet.” “It’s a rubric,” Claudius corrects. “I used a rubric to narrow down the candidates.”
They were all titled, entitled, and completely … wrong.
