Page 62 of Blood Queen

I arch a brow. “Should I be nervous? I um, I don’t drink.”

She laughs, handing me a cup. “Nah. Just don’t let these assholes talk you into taking shots.”

I glance at Truman. He’s watching me like a hawk, like he’s already regretting bringing me here. “You don’thaveto drink,” he says, low and close.

I tilt my head at him. “You think I can handle it?”

His jaw tics. “I think you don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”

Warmth unfurls in my chest. I nudge him with my elbow. “Relax, I’ll be okay.”

I take a sip. It’s sweet and deceptively smooth, but heat spreads through me almost instantly.

Tasha cheers. “And so it begins.”

One drink turns into two. Anddamn,I like the way it makes me feel.

Lighter. Freer. Less like the girl who grew up secluded in the woods and more like someone who belongs here.

Eli makes a batch of something with vodka, pineapple juice, and Sprite, and when he hands me a cup, I take it without thinking. Truman watches every sip I take, his hand firm on my lower back, but he doesn’t stop me.

Maybe because I’m laughing more than I have inforever.

Tasha and I play a drinking game with a group of people crowded around the kitchen island, some variation of ‘Never Have I Ever.’ I don’t know half of the things they talk about, but I drink when they do, giggling when Tasha nudges me with her elbow.

“Never have I ever milked a goat,” some guy says, and I take a sip automatically, grinning into my cup.

Tasha gapes at me. “Shutup. You?Youmilk goats?”

I shrug, a little buzzed and a lot amused. “I mean, yeah.”

Eli laughs. “Shit, I keep forgetting you were raised like some feral mountain girl.”

Truman stiffens beside me, but I just shake my head. “Not feral. Just… off the grid.”

Eli smirks. “Same difference.”

I flick my straw at him, and he ducks, laughing.

Truman leans down, murmuring against my ear. “You good?”

I turn to face him, looking up into his dark, steady eyes. He’s been watching me all night, making sure I don’t go too far, don’t get too drunk.

I smile. “Yeah, I’m good.”

I’m buzzed.Warm.Loose-limbed and light-headed.

He studies me for a long second before nodding. “Let’s dance.”

I don’t know how to dance.

At least, not like this—pressed up against Truman in the middle of a crowded living room, his hands low on my hips, our bodies moving in slow, lazy circles.

I don’t even care that I don’t know what I’m doing.

BecauseGod,this feels good.

Truman smells like soap and alcohol, his skin warm where it brushes mine. He’s solid and steady, the only thing keeping me from floating away completely.