Page 3

Des raises an eyebrow. At his back, his own wings, which I haven’t noticed until now, expand. The leathery silver skin of them pulls taut as they extend to either side of him, blocking out most of the room.

“You do realize almost all fae have wings?”

I know they do. ButInever have.

I hold up a forearm. In the dim light, the golden scales that plate my arm from wrist to elbow shimmer like jewelry. On the tips of my fingers, my nails glint black. They’re not sharpened at the moment (thanks to meticulously filing them down), but the second my siren gets a little angry, they’ll grow back into curving points.

“How about this?” I ask. “Do most fae have this?”

He clasps my hand in his own. “It doesn’t matter one way or another. You are mine.” Des kisses the palm of my hand, and somehow, he manages to make my insecurities feel small and petty.

He doesn’t release my hand, and I stare at the scales.

“Will they ever go away?” I ask.

His grip tightens. “Do you want them to?”

I should know that voice by now. I should hear the warning notes in it, the dangerous lilt. But I don’t, too consumed with my own self-pity.

I meet his eyes. “Yes.”

I get that I’m being a poor sport. Rather than making lemonade out of lemons, I’m pretty much cutting open those lemons and squeezing them into my eyes.

My heart speeds up as he fingers one of the hundreds of beads that still circle my wrist, each one an IOU for a favor I cashed in long ago.

His eyes flick to mine. “Truth or dare?”

Des’s gaze twinkles as he plays with the bead on my wrist, waiting for my answer.

Truth or dare?

This is the little game he loves to make out of my repayment plan. To me, it feels less like the game ten-year-old girls play at slumber parties and a whole lot more like Russian roulette with a fully loaded weapon.

I stare the Bargainer down, his silver eyes both so foreign and so familiar.

I don’t answer fast enough.

He gives my wrist the lightest of squeezes. “Dare,” he says for me.

The part of me that enjoys sex and violence quakes with excitement, wanting whatever Des offers. The rest of me is starting to think I should be scared shitless. This is the same man known around these parts as the King of Chaos. Just because we’re mates doesn’t mean he’ll go easy on me. He’s still the same wicked man I met eight years ago.

Des smiles, the sight almost sinister. A moment later, a pile of leathers fall to the floor next to me. I stare down at them dumbly, not understanding what it is he dared me to.

For all I know, I just got royally fucked over.

Actually, I’m almost positive I got fucked over.

“Suit up,” Des says, releasing my wrist. “It’s time to start your training.”

Chapter 2

How hard is it to fight a warrior king without the use of glamour?

Really freaking hard.

The bastard dared me to train with him. And if that sounds vague, that’s because he meant it to be.

I don’t know what I’m doing, why I’m doing it, or how long I’ll be doing it for. All I know is that Des gave me leathers and a sword several hours ago, and ever since then, he’s been systematically nicking those training leathers and swiping my sword out of my hand.