Page 96 of Blood Sweeter than Honey

She stares at me in wide-eyed horror. “Please, no.”

I drop her hands. “Oh, you do have such lovely eyes. How about one of those?”

Terrified silence.

“No? Surely you can part ways with a few quarts of blood in a ritual sacrifice?”

Seraphine’s gulp is audible. My annoyance and impatience escape me in a groan.

“You know, I’m really trying my best here, Seraphine, and you haven’t offered me a single–

Her words are panicked. Desperate. “My hair. What about my hair?”

My lips curl with wicked delight.

“Fine, but I want every last inch and not a hair less.”

I summon a pair of gilded, ancient-looking scissors into my hand for dramatic effect. Even that proves to be yet another drain on my magic, and I send a silent prayer toAkashthat I won’t have to fucking walk back to Gideon’s at this point.

The most sincere tears I’ve seen from Seraphine yet come as she raises her shaky hand and begins to hack away at her long, luscious locks.

I wait for the guilt to hit. For the familiar churn of my gut. It never comes.

As thick swathes of her hair fall to the counter, I only feel the tiniest fragment of retribution. She made Gideon suffer for years. She sought to steal him from me.

Offering me her hair is frankly the least she could do.

As the last tendril of hair falls, heavy footsteps sound in the distance. Quicklywillingaway the scissors, Iwilla dress to cover my nude form just before a male, dressed in afluffy bathrobe and tasseled slippers, rounds the corner of the bathroom door, eyes widening at the sight of me.

“Cool costume… Did you schedule a play date–

Seraphine’s jaw drops.

“You can see her too?!”

His eyes shift to Seraphine’s sheared head and he rears back in horror. She looks a lot like a doll that a child decided to give a haircut to.

“Jesus Christ, Sera. What the fuck did you do to your hair?”

What in the sacred mother of fuck?

This woman has been stalking my man when she already has one of her own?

“I’m sorry, who the fuck are you?”

He looks taken aback, clutching at the lapels of his robe as he huffs.

“Louis Pembroke the Third. Haven’t you heard of me?”

Oh my fucking gods.

My hand closes into a fist and when I throw it, I’m aiming for the fucking furthest point directly beyond his head—his face is just in the fucking way.

Bone crunches beneath my knuckles, and if I’m honest, I’m not entirely sure if it’s my bones or his. Louis spins 360 degrees from where he stands in the doorway on a discarded towel on the polished marble floor.

Louis tumbles backward, clutching at his bleeding nose, and I try my very best to pretend I don’t feel the absolutely insane pain exploding through my hand and wrist.

“Right. I think I’m done here.”

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