Three
Jessica stalked off in her six-inch heels, swinging her white denim butt all the way into the atrium of her fancy apartment building next door.
I grimaced. “That went well.”
“No, Chosen. By your own standards, it did not go well. That went very badly. You were about to kill that revolting woman right in front of your Domicile. Which is fine, except you consistently emphasize how important it is to not kill people in public.” He took my arm and led me into my building.
“I was being sarcastic,” I muttered. The feeling of his huge hand caressing my upper arm, holding me firmly but gently—it was scrambling my brain. “And you promised me you would stay in the car,” I added weakly.
Donovan didn’t smile, but I caught the easing of tension in his jaw and the softening of his eyes. “I lied.” He shoved the cage of my own private elevator aside.
Cecil trotted in behind me, still in his massive bullmastiff body. As the elevator doors closed, a shower of gold sparkles rained down, and he returned to his normal duocorn form—a tiny miniature pony with two stubby horns sticking out of his head.
He lifted himself upright to stand on his back hooves and struck a pose. “As if we were going to stay in the car and watch that bitch walk all over you, Chosen.”
I scowled. The old Susan would never have let someone like Jessica talk to me like that. The broken Susan had the confidence of a teaspoon. I was getting it back slowly, trying to struggle into who I used to be—blisteringly confident, totally sure of myself—but the Old Susan somehow felt like a tight set of clothes that I had outgrown. It wasn’t just Audrina’s disappearance that ate into my newfound confidence. I just couldn’t get over the fact that I’d been so wrong about everything.
I turned to Donovan. “You lied?” And here was another thing I was wrong about. “But…”
“But what?”
“I thought that the fae couldn’t lie?”
Cecil let out a bark of laughter. “Who told you that?”
“It’s a commonly known fact about the fae. It’s in all Audrina’s books. And some of the ones I’ve read, too. The fae are prone to tricking people and evading the truth because they can’t lie.”
Cecil lit a cigarette and snapped the lighter away with a flourish. “That sounds like something a fae would say.”
“You can’t smoke in here, Cecil!”
“Of course I can. Look.” He inhaled deeply and blew out another plume of smoke. “I’m doing it right now.”
I waved my hands furiously. “You know what I mean.”
The elevator dinged and gave a jaunty little shake before it began to move upwards. The first time Violet House had done that, I immediately panicked, thinking it was an earthquake. But no, it was just my juvenile sentient House, giving me the equivalent of a welcome-home hug.
I patted the elevator wall tenderly and glared down at Cecil. “Violet’s a child. You shouldn’t smoke around children, Cecil.”
He pursed his lips, flicking ash on the floor. “She’s a Domicile, Chosen. If she can put up with a hot-rock sauna in your bathroom, she can deal with a little cigarette smoke. Besides.” He blew out another long plume of smoke. “You think she’s never seen someone smoke before? Half the fae are raging nicotine addicts, you know. Always puffing on their pipes.”
I scowled, more annoyed than I should be. Something about it bothered me.
Like a lot of women my age, I'd been a smoker once upon a time. In my late twenties, when I was crawling up the corporate ladder, it was almost compulsory to go for a cigarette break with the rest of your team. We all complained when anti-smoking laws came in. Besides, with the dwindling group of die-hards, I was reluctant to trudge down to the designated smoking area outside in the street, especially knowing I’d have to quit when I eventually got pregnant anyway. So, I gave up cold-turkey.
I was miserable for months. The memory of having a cigarette plagued me constantly. I remembered how delicious it was—that first whiff of tobacco in the morning when you slid your cigarette out of a fresh pack, the satisfying click of the lighter, the delicious expansion of your lungs with that first deep inhale, and the long, long exhale of relief.
A realization hit me. “Huh.”
Donovan’s gaze flicked towards me. “Chosen?”
I waved him away. “I’m having an epiphany.”
“About Cecil?”
“No. I mean, yes, I wish he would stop smoking, but no.”
The elevator dinged. Donovan shoved the cage aside, cautiously glanced out of the door, and, with swift, practiced movements, cleared the drawing room. I put my hand on the doorframe again; Violet quivered underneath my fingertips, eager to please. I could imagine her whispering to me. Nobody is here, I promise.
Donovan caught my eye and nodded towards Cecil. “You can command him not to smoke, you know. He is oath-bound to obey you. If you give him a direct order, he cannot defy it.”
Cecil groaned. “Spoilsport.”
I had suspected as much. “Well, I’m not going to order him to do anything,” I said firmly, stalking through the enormous drawing room, heading to the kitchen. “I will ask nicely, and then I will attempt to reach a compromise. Cecil’s not my slave.”
“Well.” Donovan frowned. “Technically—”
“I don’t care if he technically is my slave. I will not treat him like one.” To emphasize my statement, I tossed my hair, pirouetted, and walked into my beautiful new luxurious kitchen.
Cecil let out a dramatic sniff. “Chosen! Stop. I will cry!” He shimmied over to the wet bar. “You’re the sunshine of my life.”
“No cocktails, Cecil. It’s not even lunchtime yet.”
“You’re the ten-percent-chance-of-rain of my morning,” he amended, pursing his lips. “Fine. I’ll make espresso.”
I walked over to the fridge and started rummaging around inside. I recognized nothing. Everything was wrapped in expensive wax paper or bottled in glass with glittering jewel-colored crystal stoppers. Nothing was labeled. Cecil seemed to have stocked my fridge directly from the farmer’s gates.
“Ex-fucking-scuse me, my good bitch.” Cecil whinnied behind me, outraged. “What do you think you’re doing?”
