Pretty and Floaty
1197 Words
Ren’s POV
I close my eyes and try to focus on my breathing as I coax Rosie into a gallop.
The s**t has officially hit the fan.
I didn’t want to believe Sabrina. I had no reason to believe her, other than a woman’s intuition. I did believe her, but even then, I gave him the benefit of the doubt. I asked him.
At least he didn’t lie to me.
That kiss changed my life—really, it did. I’ve been kissed enough times in my life to know that it was different—that it meant something—that whatever exists between us is very special and very real.
But it doesn’t matter. I refuse to let it matter.
He f****d her and he hurt her when he broke up with her. Whether she liked it or not, it was wrong. It was hate s*x. It was violent s*x. It was s*x that proves he is every bit the kind of vampire I loathe more than anything else in the world.
The kind like Ramsay Eaton.
- - - - -
I turn eighteen in one week, and I’ve pretty much accepted the fact that I’m going to end up with Archer.
I always fought it before. I always thought he wasn’t the kind of man I wanted to be with—that he was too self-absorbed; too ladder-climbing; too shallow.
But now? Now that I’ve been reminded what men can be like?
Archer’s a good one. Not a perfect one, but a good one.
“Something’s up with you.”
The three of us are together—me, Margery, and Archer. We took Vance’s royal morotcade into town to go dress shopping the second Margery heard that they were throwing an eighteenth birthday party for me.
“I don’t see why you’re acting surprised,” I told her when she heard. “They always throw me a birthday party, and they always throw me a goodbye party a week and a half later.”
“Yeah, but this is totally different,” she objected dramatically. “You’re turning eighteen this time. This is the moment all of them watch with held breath as they pray to their heathen gods that you’ll accept Prince Tattoo’s proposal of marriage.”
I giggled at that, as I always do when she calls Nick “Prince Tattoo.” We’ve both confided in each other that we find his tattoos equal parts sexy and fascinating, but we still enjoy making fun of them.
Anyway, I agreed to go into town with her to go dress shopping, and of course, where we go, Archer goes. So here we are.
“I’m fine,” I tell her. “Just… ready to go home.”
Archer looks pleased to hear this, I notice. He’s been rather grumpy since I sent him away after his fight with Nick, but has gradually eased up on the misery as he’s noticed my strict avoidance of Nick at all costs.
Not that Nick has tried to see me. He hasn’t said a single word to me. Apparently he wasn’t all that devastated by my rejection of him. Maybe the kiss was no big deal to him.
Wish I could say the same.
In truth, the kiss was so, unfairly, sinfully good, I find myself waking up in the middle of the night every night, thinking about it. I find myself biting my lips and moaning in the frustration and desire that I still feel, that I felt then, that I—
Well, I digress. Doesn’t matter anyway.
“This one would look beautiful on you,” Archer says quietly, pulling a long, ice-blue dress off the rack.
I scan it carefully, then look up at him, frowning. It’s almost the exact color of his eyes—pretty, but not nearly as rich and vibrant as the azure of Nick’s eyes. It reminds me of home.
I should love it, but I don’t.
- - - - -
I bought the dress, of course.
Well, why not? I want to wear black or red, but that wouldn’t be fitting for Princess Serendipity on her eighteenth birthday, would it?
“Well, you’re not considering your audience,” Margery points out when I ask her this. It’s just the two of us now, watching rom coms in my room and passing the time leading up to my eighteenth, which is now in one day. “The vamps would love to see you in black or red. They like their princesses tough and bloody, not pretty and floaty.”
She’s right—which is exactly why I went with pretty and floaty.
“I’m not here to impress the vamps,” I remind her, crossing my arms and sinking lower into my bed. “I’m here because I have to be.”
“Right.” She pauses the movie and glances over at me, sympathy filling her big, gray eyes. “Something is going on. I knew it.”
Margery’s never been the most perceptive person I know, but she’s always been a good friend, and friends know when something’s up with friends.
I shouldn’t tell her. I shouldn’t tell anyone.
I tell her.
“Nick kissed me.”
“What?” she demands, jumping out of the bed, jaw dropping. “Nick Emerson?”
“Shhh!” I snap at her, pressing my finger against my lips. “I don’t want anyone to know. I’m confused enough as it is.”
“Did you…” She looks flabbergasted. “Like it?”
“Well… yeah. It was…” I shudder at the memory. “I liked it a lot. But it can never happen again. He’s a scoundrel, Marge. The worst kind of person. A true, cold-blooded vampire.”
It’s not hard for her to read between the lines of what I mean, I can tell: Like Ramsay.
“Maybe,” she finally says. “Maybe not, though. Luke has always spoken really highly of him—like there’s more to him than meets the eye. And it’s not as if either of us has really ever tried getting to know him, right?”
I love her for this—for trying to make a case to defend a person I know she hates as much as I do, just for my sake.
But it won’t work.
“I can’t be with him,” I say. “I just can’t.”
Come midnight, I remind myself, it won’t matter, anyway. My wolf will pick Archer.
- Writer
