Page 39 of Hellish Fae
“And you look like a fucking half-demon, half-fae,” I note, breaking apart her shiny plan more and more with minimal fucking effort.
Her eyes close slowly, and as she does so, her fine black wings tuck in tight against her small back. I watch curiously for several seconds. She takes a deep breath, inhaling for a long moment. Her wings grow smaller and smaller. The feathers tickle above her shoulders before . . .
Disappearing completely.
I’ve never seen anything like it.
“You . . . you can hide your wings?”
“I’m a dark fae of high decent. Changing appearance with basic glamours is something any common fae can do, but only those with pure magic and pure blood can alter the physical form with powerful glamours.”
I nod slowly. “Okay, so you look like a wingless demon. Demons aren’t welcome within the castle without a handler.” I smirk at how easy it is to debunk her fucking thoughtless ideas.
“Well, that’s where a wannabe fae like you comes in.” She tilts her head at me so swiftly that her long silver hair sways against her breasts.
My eyes narrow on her, and it just makes that pure white obnoxious smile of hers widen.
“Be my handler,” she proposes like the out-of-her-fucking-mind woman that she clearly is.
“As much as I love you begging me for something, I’m not risking what my brother has going here for a girl I barely know.”
She has no idea what I’ve been through for my brother and what my brother’s done for me. I won’t fuck it up. Not for her.
She never lowers her determined silver gaze from mine. With swift moves, she slices her index finger down the sharp edge of the blade hung near the door.
Crimson blood trickles down her palm, and yeah, she’s definitely all sexy curves and absolutely no fuckin’ brain.
She strides closer, and I glare at her as she brushes her soft body against mine. The sleek material of her bra melds to my crossed arms, and my gaze veers momentarily to note how perfect her tits look pressed against me. My fingers twitch against my palm to pull her closer but I don’t give in. Her hand lifts. I never break eye contact. I never lower my arms. I never show her the hint that I care about her.
But apparently, it’s the wrong fucking thing to do.
Her fingers tug lightly at the ends of my bright white feathers, and I grimace, but she only smiles charmingly at me as she pulls back. Step by step, she puts space between us, as if she’s really assessing my appearance as a whole.
“I think that should do the trick,” she says quietly, her eyes shining with a mischievous glint while she wraps her palm in a dark scarf.
I follow the line of her pleased attention. It’s an eerie feeling, like I know something unimaginably bad is about to happen. Something sinisterly awful. Something . . .
Holy. Fucking. Cock.
Deep pink feathers sprout from over my shoulder where my glorious white ones once were. They’re flamboyant and look like the feathers of a stripper’s boa rather than the feathers blessed by the mighty gods themselves.
“You fucking painted my wings pink?” I growl out, flinging my blazing glare back at her smirking face.
Her strange silver eyes sparkle when she’s happy.
She’s always happy when I’m pissed.
“Well, it’s magenta, actually. The deep pink really compliments your dark hair, I think. Sets off those eyes, too.” The long index finger of her right hand that was previously bleeding is now clean and nearly healed as she taps it against her chin and really studies me.
“Change them back,” I command.
Her empty head tilts this way and that. “No.”
I’m going to fuckin’ kill her. Even if her high fae powers do seem to heal her faster, I’m going to kill her.
I’m going to murder the most beautiful woman who never had a brain.
“Maybe I will change them back,” she says. “If you go to the party as my handler.” She pulls a leash from the back of her sister’s closet, and it’s like she had this entire conversation planned out before I ever entered the room.
