Page 16 of Midnight Star

“None,” he says, even though given the grandiosity of the Night Court, I highly doubt the kitchen would have run out.

It’s a game. A test.

He’s probably withholding treats because he doesn’t like the way I’ve been withdrawing.

Such goes the life of a pet to the royals of the Night Court.

“Interesting,” I say, because even though I won’t admit it to him, those cookies are delicious. I look forward to them every time I come here.

“Do you want them?” he asks, and it’s clear from his tone that he’s trying to get a rise out of me.

I recognize the game. And I refuse to play.

“Sure,” I say, and as I reach for the glass of juice, something flashes in his eyes—anger, or wounded pride.The air around the glass shifts subtly, and the liquid inside ripples in a reminder that the elements themselves obey his command.

I pick up the glass and take a slow sip, forcing myself to remain steady.

“Stop acting like someone you’re not,” he suddenly declares, taking me by so much surprise that I nearly drop the glass.

I freeze.

Then, slowly, I set the glass back down.

He’s watching me like a predator, every inch of him sculpted from shadow and seduction. But his beauty feels wrong. Like a statue carved too precisely, too perfectly, until it no longer looks real.

Stop,I think, snapping myself back into the reality where he assumes he knows everything about me.Because I don’t care if he looks like some dark, celestial being fallen from the sky.

Well, maybe I do. A little.

But that’s not the point.

“Who, exactly, am I?” I challenge after getting myself back together.

His eyes narrow, like he’s trying to pin me down and read the pages of my soul, anda breeze stirs the edges of my dress.

A warning.

“You’re someone who doesn’t give up.” There’s something vicious about the way he says it, like he’s trying to remind me of something I’ve forgotten—or trying to remind himself. “And yet here you are, retreating into yourself, pretending to feel nothing. Tobenothing.”

“You assume too much,” I say, and I put the glass to my lips and drink, needing to dosomethingto stop myself from giving into his goading.

He watches me the entire time, his gaze burning into my skin, his frustration humming between us like an unspoken threat.

And given that his fangs have already been in my skin, I refuse to let any other part of him in there, too.

So, I force myself to relax. To let the silence stretch. To make him be the first to break it.

Block it out,I remind myself.Stay in control. He can’t hurt me if I don’t let him hurt me.

By the time I finish the juice and place the glass back onto the nightstand, my walls are firmly back in place, and I’m bracing myself for him to ram into me again for not liking the way I’mbehaving.

Instead, he rises to his feet with infuriating, effortless grace. His dark wings unfurl behind him, and a gust of air swirls around the room, lifting a stray lock of his black hair and sending ripples through the juice in my glass.

“We’re done here,” he says instead, and he walks to the door and pulls it open, revealing Aethelthryth—the night fae “handler” who has to watch me when I’m not in the human wing—waiting on the other side.

Without looking back at me, he says to her, “She’s all yours.”

And then, I’m gone, not sparing him a glance on my way out.

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