Painted Devils (Little Thieves, #2)

by Margaret Owen

When I roll over, Emeric is staring at me with an expression best summarized as haunted. Bizarrely, he seems to have slept under his coat, a towel, and several unbuttoned shirts. “You,” he says blearily, “are an unparalleled devil from hell in your sleep.” “What?” Emeric rubs his eyes. “You stole all the blankets. And then you rolled up in them, like a, a crêpe, so they were stuck on your side. And then, when I tried to take one off the top, you turned over, looked me straight in the eye, and said—and I quote—‘I’ll kill you.’” “I never.” “You followed it up with ‘It’ll look like an accident.’”

For most of my life, I’ve held to a theory I call the trinity of want. It states that people are desired for three reasons: power, pleasure, or profit. If you provide three of those, others serve you. Provide two, they see you. One, they use you.

“I can be upset and still think you deserve nice things.”

I think I understand, now, why they say you fall in love, because I don’t think I could climb out of this feeling even if I wanted to. What a beautiful trap I’ve built for myself. What a horror, what a delight, to find I’ve been caught.

That night, all I remember is buying rounds at the Green Sleeve, then I woke up in jail. I thought it was jail. There were shackles.” He considers. “And whips. Maybe … sexy jail.”