Intercrossed is doing much better than I expected! Thank you for the support! Enjoy the first few ch

ONE

“This is not Australia.”

“You're a genius, Maryelle—too clever for the world,” my mother deadpans.

“Mom, what the heck! You said we were going on a summer vacation. You were taking me to Australia and Rome. Again, I have to point out that this place looks like neither.” I hadn’t been suspicious when our plane landed in Atlanta's Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport. But I grew wary when we exited the plane, and my mother walked me to the car rental kiosk instead of the next gate for our supposed connecting flight. It turns out the trips to Australia and Rome were nonexistent. No wonder the ticketing agent had looked at me crazy when I asked her if there were any dos and don'ts I should follow in the land of down under. It also explains the dirty look she gave me as she pulled on her skirt to cover more of her knees.

We pull into the driveway of an old home. Really, calling it old is a compliment. The house is three trash bags away from being a dump. The building has a broken door, and the yellow paint is flaking as if it's trying to run as far as it can from the walls. The filmy windows look as though they haven't seen a bottle of glass cleaner since being installed—not to mention, one of them is swinging from its hinges and will most likely land on someone's head soon. If being a werecoyote didn't make me immune to illnesses, I'd worry about the harmful effects of asbestos, which I’m certain the home contains. There’s a large group of teenagers scattered around the front yard. Some curiously eye my mother’s car, nonchalantly peeking at the tinted windows of her rented sedan.

“Welcome to Rome, Georgia.” My mother smirks.

I gawk at her in disbelief. “If this dump is Rome, then I'm Julius Caesar reincarnated.”

“Enjoy your stay, Caesar. Watch out for Brutus.” She bites back laughter.

Funny. “I’m positive you meant, I hope we enjoy our stay.”

She pats me on the shoulder and gives me a toothy grin. “You're on your own, kid. Everyone in our home went through the mandated werecreature combat training years ago. You're the one who delayed it by insisting on spending your summers with that strange werepanther boy and that awful siren's daughter.” Mom seems irritated by her own mention of my best friend, Anna's, mom. In my mother's defense, Anna's mom makes the devil seem like a newborn doe. I've never met anyone as spiteful and cruel. “Mar, I like Anna, but you have to be trained to protect yourself in case her mother ever tries to hurt you.”

Instead of telling her how ridiculous the notion sounds, I sigh, hug her, and open the car door to let myself out.

“Eat your veggies, and stay out of trouble,” she tells me.

“Enjoy your flight, and stay out of the slammer.” I may not admit it out loud, but I will miss her. My mother and I don't have the average mother-and-daughter relationship. We have the two-old-ladies-who've-been-friends-for-ages-and-bicker-like-an-old-married-couple relationship. She appreciates my brutal honesty and the no-nonsense, straightforward attitude I've inherited from her. And I appreciate that she treats me like I have good sense—which I do. Several parents I know treat their teenagers like inmates waiting to commit more crimes.

“Stay away from the tattooed boy.” She gives me a stern look.

“Too late, Mommy. I'm already planning our shotgun wedding.” I wink. “Ever heard of the saying ‘when in Rome’? I might just drop out of school, move here, and have eighteen of that tattooed boy's pretty babies,” I say with an exaggerated Southern drawl.

Her smirk vanishes. “Maryelle Arie Cirale, that is not funny!” She hops out of her seat, hands me my purse, and jumps back in the car. “Behave yourself. I'll call you when I get to Australia.” Her tires make a screeching sound that muffles my smart-aleck retort, and she's halfway down the road with my last shred of hope for a decent summer vacation.

A light breeze combs through my hair, and I jump when a loud grunt startles me. I blink once and see them a few yards away from me, wrestling in the front yard. I stare at the spectacle in disbelief. I feel as though I’m watching one of those barbaric gladiator movies. Two boys—two very muscular, angry, and shirtless teenage boys—are trying to kill each other. The one who catches my attention first is about six-foot-two of taut muscle with a handsome face that’s too borderline pretty to be on a body so masculine. He has striking sapphire eyes with flecks of gold that sparkle like the expensive champagne my parents splurge on every New Year’s Eve. His hair is short, tousled, and deep shades of brown. The same gorgeous guy throws another punch at his opponent, a blond boy roughly his size but not as brawny. The blond boy attempts to defend himself but unfortunately swings and misses Sapphire Eyes’s jaw.

What in the world?

I see a small crowd of angry faces egging them on. Why isn’t anyone stopping this?

A girl yells, “Kick the crap out of him, Gaston! Show the royal punk werewolves aren’t to be messed with!” The wind ruffles Sapphire Eyes’s short, glossy brown hair, making it look like he's doing one of those shampoo commercials that make you wish you had better hair. I notice a tattoo on his back: large, black tribal markings that zigzag across his shoulders and go down to the middle of his back in a complicated pattern. When he throws another hard blow, I whistle to get their attention. Andddd it’s ignored. I sigh and make my way toward them.

The boy on the receiving end of Sapphire Eyes’s punches smirks at me. “Looks as if your pretend daddy has sent someone to come get you, Phantom. You’d better run along before I punch your pretty face again.” He snickers.

Sapphire Eyes growls at him, raises his fist, and swings it toward the blond boy's face. I rush toward them with lightning speed and grab his fist before it reaches its target.

“Stop it! Both of you!”

Sapphire Eyes scowls at me, and blond boy looks at me in disbelief. I drop his fist. “What is wrong with the two of you?” I shout. “What are you, competing for the title of America’s Biggest Neanderthal?”

Blond boy bursts into laughter, and Sapphire Eyes crosses his arms as he studies me. His eyes slowly roam, taking me in and stopping when they reach my lips. For unknown reasons, my lips respond with a warm, tingly sensation that quickly spreads to my cheeks.

“I’ve had enough of these idiot werewolves. We should go.” Sapphire Eyes grabs my hand. An unexpected electric current rushes through my blood and elevates my heart rate. Unfortunately for me, I am surrounded by werecreatures who can hear a whisper from a mile away, which means they can hear the ruckus going on behind my chest. Satisfied with my obvious reaction to his hand touching mine, Sapphire Eyes smiles smugly. Irritated both at myself and him, I snatch my hand back.

His smug expression annoys me just as it reminds me to keep my word about swearing off all guys. Thoughts of my ex, Jared, play through my mind. He’s the guy who shattered my heart into tiny worthless pieces when he cheated on me. “I don’t think so.” I wish my voice didn’t sound so high-pitched. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“I guess I’ll see you around.” He winks. “And you,” he snarls, glaring at the blond boy. “Come near my sister again, and I will kill you!” He shoves past the group surrounding us and takes off. Holy crap! Who was that?

“Are you finished drooling yet? Or should I give you another moment to explain why you’re still on my property?” Blond Boy asks.

I roll my eyes. Fantastic! Rome, Georgia’s got comedians. “Which one of you guys is Gaston?” I ask, not in the mood to respond to Blond Boy’s silly question.

“That would be me.” Blond Boy raises his hand.

Of all the rotten luck in the world…

“I’m Maryelle.” When my name doesn’t remove the fresh confusion on his features, I explain. “My mother paid you to train me.” Confusion further masks his face. “You’re supposed to train me for the mandated combat exit test.”

“Oh, yeah!” He no longer looks befuddled. “Sorry you had to witness that mess with Phantom. I wasn’t expecting you ’til tomorrow. Let’s head this way.”

I follow him.

“I’m calling dibs on this one. She's hot,” another boy I hadn't even noticed sitting on the porch steps says. He's not bad looking either, but then again, neither is my best friend Israfil, and I have zero attraction to either guy. He gets up from the porch steps, runs a hand through his messy, shoulder-length black hair and grins at me. “Hey cutie, I’m Sebastian. FYI, my room is on the second floor to the right.”

Gaston's intense silver gaze never leaves me, as if he's studying me for a reaction. It’s clear he’s also waiting to hear my response to Sebastian's obvious come-on.

“What time does our training start?” My question makes Sebastian's grin somehow grow wider.

“Why don't you let me take you to dinner so we can discuss it over food?” Sebastian wags his eyebrows suggestively.

Um… no. I open my mouth to tell him to buzz off, but Gaston speaks before I do. “Bash, I don't think the little coyote is interested in wolves—or in you.”

Shock flashes across my face. Are they all wolves? Why am I being trained by werewolves?

Gaston reads my expression of shock. “The werecoyotes who signed on to train you opted for a summer vacation in Australia.” He answers my silent question.

“Figures,” I mutter.

“They didn’t feel one trainee was worth sticking around for. Apparently most werecoyotes have problems with respecting prior engagements. Lucky for you, my pack and I needed the money, so I took the job.” Awesome. I’ll be living in a house full of wolves. I’ll be the odd woman out—the ultimate pariah.

“Training starts at five in the morning, and I expect everyone on the field at four thirty,” Gaston tells me. “You can stay out here and make friends with these riffraffs.” He indicates the now scattered crowd. “Come inside when you’re ready.” He disappears toward what looks like a path to the backyard.

“If you change your mind…” Sebastian smirks, giving me another wink. “Hey, Gaston. Hold up, dude.” He runs after him.

I let out a sigh and decide to go find my room now rather than later. It's roughly four in the afternoon. The sun hangs low, making the damp grass sparkle like a field of precious emeralds. At least the crap house has a nice front yard. Without further delay, I swing my bag over my shoulder and head for the front door. My first step into the house makes it creak like it'll cave in if I step on it any harder. The smell of rotting wood further convinces me it will.

“Hey, new girl! Heads up!” I turn around just in time to see a large, saw-toothed copper blade flying toward my head at an unprecedented rate. As amazing as my reflexes are, there's zero time for me to stop the knife from slicing my forehead open. Considering that the board beneath my feet is fairly loose and covering a large hole, ducking to miss the blade will cause me to sink beneath the board and into the hole. Right before the knife slices my head open, something hard hits me on the shoulder, and I’m moved to the side before I can catch my breath. My eyes are squeezed shut, and when I open them, they're looking into Gaston’s intense silver-gray eyes.

“You still with me?” He does a quick glance over, checking my face for injury.

“She looks fine,” the girl who threw the knife says. Pulling away from him, I double back, land on my feet, and catch her off guard by locking her in a firm grip that forces her face down on the loose board covering the hole I was standing on. She wiggles against my grasp, but my hold is tight enough to keep her from being able to fidget, let alone stand.

“You try that again, and I'll break both of your knees and make you eat this board.”

“Go for it. I love the taste of decaying wood,” she hisses.

I let her go because, frankly, beating the crap out of a mentally disadvantaged person is like kicking a kitten. And this girl’s an obvious nutcase.

“For the record, Gaston is off limits to you. He's done dating werecoyotes,” she says as though he's not standing there listening to her.

“There are stalking laws in Georgia, you know? And restraining orders.” I look at Gaston this time. I shake my head in dismay and grab my bag from Gaston’s hands.

“Freya,” Gaston says, motioning toward the crazy girl who just threw the knife at me, “plays a little rough, but she means no harm. I don’t want you feeling uncomfortable in a house filled with werewolves. I promise we’re not all crazy. If it’s any consolation, I look forward to teaching you every combat trick I know, and I’m glad you’re training with us.” He smiles apologetically.

“Thank you for having me.” I return his polite smile.

“Could you be any more obvious?” Freya scoffs, glaring at me.

Sebastian sniggers. “Freya, if she were any more obvious, they'd both be naked and making everyone's favorite floorboard jealous.”

“Which one’s my room?” I sigh, ignoring Sebastian.

“Your room's on the far left. It’s upstairs.” Gaston ignores Sebastian’s inappropriate howling sounds.

Unwilling to entertain any more foolishness, I rush past the three of them and head upstairs to find my room.

When I reach my doorway, I hear a voice. “I guess you met Freya. Careful, the little witch-wolf is vindictive toward any girl trying to breathe the same air as Gaston. I'm Al. It’s short for Alice, but I'm not into the wonderland jokes.” She offers me her hand, and I step inside. Al’s three inches shorter than I am. She has olive skin peppered with freckles and short, curly blond hair cut into the shape of a mushroom. She has on an AC/DC shirt, ripped blue jeans, and black combat boots held together by duct tape. Her eyes are bright silver with smudges of neon-blue. Most werewolves have silver eyes—it’s one of their signature werecreature traits.

“I'm Maryelle.” I take her hand and give it a firm shake. “You're a wolf, right?” I'm a little astonished that I have yet to meet another werecoyote. I’d hoped there would be at least another one. So far, it's just been wolves—unless you count the guy Gaston was pummeling earlier.

“I guess they didn't tell you.”

“Tell me what?” I ask.

“This entire training is for werewolves; you're the only werecoyote training with us. Apparently, most of your people have an aversion to missing their vacation time. The majority scattered like roaches when they found out you were the only candidate this year.”

“Gaston mentioned it,” I say with a heavy sigh. “I was just hoping…”

“Do you have a problem with werewolves?”

I take another deep breath and rub my temples. “No, Al, but I haven’t had the best impression of werewolves so far. After ten minutes being here, one wolf has tried to kill me, one engaged himself in brutal violence with a werecoyote, and another acted like a prowler who couldn't keep his eyes off the upper part of my torso.”

“Every group has its crazies and creeps. You were unfortunate to come across one—possibly two.” She shrugs. “Gaston,” she says with a sly smile, “must have checked you out. He has a thing for werecoyotes, you know. Freya may glare at other girls because she’s envious, but she rarely attacks them. She's been in love with him since we were kids.”

“I don't know what you're talking about, and Freya,” I say, emphasizing both syllables in her name, “needs a good dosage of mental meds.” I look around and notice the room has four beds—two sets of bunks. “Which one's mine?” I glance at the top bunk on the far right.

“The one you're looking at,” Al answers with a smile. “And in case you were wondering, I'm the nice wolf.”

TWO

The sun sets. Captivated, I watch its buttery haze disappear behind the clouds in pretty shades of blue, purple, and splotches of gold. It reminds me of the sunsets back home at Falls Quaker and briefly takes my mind off being stuck in Rome, Georgia. I glance at Al’s bed and wonder what the next few weeks hold for me. Al went for a run two hours ago. She hasn't come back yet.

I dial Israfil’s number, and it rings at least five times before his voice booms on the line, asking me to leave a message he will return. I hang up and dial his number again. This time, an annoying woman’s robotic voice tells me my call is forwarded to voicemail. No, he did not! Did he just ignore my call? Fuming, I try again. The annoying robotic lady, who I now want to strangle as much as I want to strangle Israfil, repeats the same infuriating message. I’ll try him again later.

If boredom could kill, I’d be digging a hole in the backyard where they could dump my body. I only brought a handful of clothes, so unpacking what perfectly fits in my bag seems like a futile idea. I've already spoken to Anna, my best friend from back home, and managed to avoid talking to her mother. Anna’s mother brings a whole new meaning to the words “rival enemies.” Unfortunately, because Anna's mom is a siren, and both Israfil and I are werecreatures, she by default considers us enemies. I mean, I get that sirens and werecreatures have been fighting and killing each other since before the universe was dust, but I've known Anna and Israfil since we were kids. I would never harm either of them. Granted, I've had times when I wanted to strangle them for being annoying, but I doubt their lineage had anything to do with those urges. Truthfully, I would kill anyone who tried to hurt them.

Despite her repetition of the words “I'm fine,” Anna had sounded morbidly down, which made me feel guilty for not being back home in California with her. I should be there for her. The dork causing her depression, Israfil, isn't answering my calls. The two of them are more than just friends—they're my family. They are also in love and refuse to admit the fact. Before I left, Anna finally made a move and asked Israfil out, only to have it blocked by her mother, who forced Israfil and his dad out of town before he and Anna could have their first date. Sirens have a lot of say in our world. They and copper are the two things that can easily kill a werecreature, so we avoid both whenever we can.

Anna's mother hates Israfil because he's a werepanther. The sad part is the poor schmuck has no clue he’s a werepanther. Israfil’s father has kept him ignorant about his lineage. The man figured out a way to keep Israfil’s inner animal muted, meaning Israfil has never experienced turning into a werepanther or hearing the thoughts of the panther he shares a body with. I wish someone had done that for me. Being a werecreature means always having to control violent animalistic urges and ignoring the inner voice of an opinionated beast you share thoughts and a body with.

I think of Israfil and his lack of knowledge about the world he plays such a major part in and wonder why his father’s keeping their supernatural background from him. The world of werecreatures is a fairly close-knit realm. Although they may not all like each other, just about everyone knows everyone when it comes to the wereroyals. And for Israfil’s father, a king, to not only separate himself from our world, but to separate his son from their heritage is beyond me.

My mother’s told me Israfil’s dad withdrew from the supernatural world when Israfil’s mother passed. But she wouldn’t tell me any more details on the matter or what exactly killed Israfil’s mother. Because copper and sirens are the two things most lethal to a werecreature, I’m willing to bet she was murdered and did not die during childbirth, even though it’s the story Israfil’s father told human officials. Sadly, it’s also what he told his son. I don’t understand why his father won’t tell him the truth, and I can’t fathom how he could allow his son, the prince of the werepanthers, to be so oblivious to his heritage. Israfil’s knowledge about our world is nonexistent and consistent with the humans’ fictitious versions they write and make films about.

Most humans’ movie versions of werecreatures aren’t too farfetched from the truth. Despite their belief that werecreatures need full moons to change, or that we have to be temperamental, we can actually shift at will. Though it’s likely to see a werecreature whose emotions are heightened to lose control and transform.

What most human fictional stories tend to miss is our origin. We are derived from powerful beasts known as the forbidden animals. The forbidden animals resemble the average lion, panther, wolf, and hyena, among other members of the animal species. But these creatures are at least three times their size, move in flashing speed, and are immeasurably more powerful than the average wildlife in the animal kingdom.

These forbidden animals were created by a shaman. Although already powerful when they first encountered the shaman, the forbiddens were hunted by humans who sought to kill for sport. After losing countless family members to the attacks made unfair by their opponent’s weapons, they agreed to work for the shaman in exchange for power and immortality that would shield and allow them to protect their families.

The shaman turned these already resilient animals into indomitable predators by casting a spell that transferred part of his power into them. In exchange for their power, the forbidden animals agreed to obliterate the shaman’s enemies, eliminating the risks that came with going into battle himself. After decades of conquering the shaman’s rivals, the forbidden animals felt they fulfilled their end of the bargain just as the shaman fulfilled his, and wanted to return to their sanctuary and live in peace.

Drunk with power, the greedy shaman refused to part with his army of immortal annihilators. He threatened to kill every last one of them if they didn’t serve him. Mutiny was inevitable as the forbiddens fought against the man who sought to enslave them, and with great effort they killed him. After their victory, the forbiddens lived in peace in an ethereal sanctuary that a local witch—a former enemy of the shaman they had spared—created for them.

My ancestors, the first werecreatures, didn’t come about until more greedy humans, who craved and seized power whenever they could, discovered them. These humans injected themselves into the supernatural world, demanded favors, and threatened to expose any supernatural who declined to give in to their demands. Not willing to risk the safety of their families, most supernatural creatures except the forbidden animals gave in to the demands of these men—a group derived from a race that destroys and enslaves what they fear or can’t control.

Claiming that the forbidden animals posed a threat of the unknown to their wellbeing, the humans attacked them with intentions to cage and use them. They failed. When the battles against the forbidden animals took place, countless humans’ lives perished. The cluster of humans that didn’t perish during combat got infected by the bites of the forbidden animals. The bite gave the humans the ability to transform into the specific animal that bit them. It also made us what we are today—werecreatures.

After being shunned by the forbidden animals who considered these mutated humans abominations, the werecreatures moved on. In time, they learned to adjust to their new abilities. Because they could turn humans into werecreatures using the curse of the bite, most of them turned their families into werecreatures. Others separated themselves from the humans they once were altogether and formed secluded societies within their ranks.

Kings were appointed, and new civilizations were built. With time, they discovered they were immortals but not indestructible. There were many supernatural entities who could cause them harm; however, the ones most lethal were and still are the sirens. Something in their biological makeup gives them the power to wield a force that can incinerate us at will. Many werecreatures who have faced sirens compared the pain of their injuries to having your innards set on fire—and others compared it to being drowned with acid.

Someone's loud whistling snaps me out of my thoughts. I wheel around and catch Al grinning like a Cheshire cat. She has on a black mini skirt and a tiny tank top with enough glitter to outshine a room full of disco balls. “We're going out. You and me.” She points a finger at me. “We're headed to a nightclub, so I need you to change into something that doesn't scream ‘I am a nun on my day off.’”

I want to point out nuns don't take days off from their vows of virtue or attend nightclubs, but another glance at her disco-ball shirt tells me it's a moot point. “Give me five minutes.” The second she leaves me alone, I grab my duffel bag and empty its contents onto the bed. I end up putting on a red halter-top, jean shorts, and a pair of black knee-high boots I got for my sixteenth birthday last year. I run a brush through my long, wavy black hair and apply the shimmery pink lip gloss my sister, Marja, insisted I should always wear. Thirty minutes later, I somehow end up following Al, who yells, “See ya, suckers,” to Freya and Sebastian as we exit the house.

THREE

In the club, the music pounds against the speakers like an angry woodpecker trying to demolish a tree. Al yells her order over the noise, and the bartender hands her two shots in return. She shoves one in my direction, and before I can decline, a guy jumps in front of me and shoves the glass filled with dark-gray liquid away. “She's not allowed to drink that,” he says to the bartender, who nods and reaches for the glass.

I grab it before he does and turn to stare at the boy with the audacity to tell me what I can and cannot drink. I immediately recognize him. It’s the same guy Gaston fought earlier. Holy mother of all that is hot! The boy—excuse me, man—in front of me looks even more gorgeous than he did earlier. Under the flickering lights, his face is chiseled to perfection, with a square jaw, high cheekbones, magnetic sapphire-blue eyes, and a set of full yet firm lips pressed into a tight line. I avoid staring at the muscular torso hiding behind the gray shirt and dark jeans he's wearing. Get a grip, Mar! Good looks aside, I won't have anyone boss me around—even if he looks like a walking centerfold model.

“What's in this?” I ask Al, whose eyes are bugged out in apprehension.

“It's a potion—an herbal drink—called Edge. He’s right. You probably shouldn’t drink it.” She glances at the jerk in front of us with unease. His presence has her looking like an anxious kitten. I look him up and down again and notice he's even taller than I’d thought. His thick and wavy short hair looks more like the color of milk chocolate. It’s that rich and silky. A gratuitous second glance tells me that his body isn't just toned; it's moored with large and tightly wound muscles that would easily break any opponent in half. The ones on his left arm flex behind his gray shirt when he spreads an open palm, waiting for me to place the drink in his hand.

“Give me the glass. It's an order,” he adds, as though that's supposed to make me jump. I nod and smile because I find the words more amusing than anything anyone has ever said. He relaxes, thinking I'll comply.

I chug the entire drink and smirk at him. I slam the glass on the bar, but not before staring him down as I lick the rim of the glass and then stick my tongue out at him. The drink tastes like rancid toilet water, and I swear I'll barf at any moment, but I won't give him the satisfaction. “Mmm, delicious! Oh, and in case you were wondering what just happened—I don't take orders.” I shove past him. “Let's go dance,” I say to Al. Her mouth pops open in shock, and there's a hint of fear in her silver eyes. I pull her toward the dance floor and don't bother looking at the jerk behind me.

“Are you insane? Do you know who he is?” she whispers harshly.

“Yeah, he’s a guy used to telling people what to do. Stop worrying so much, and dance. We came here to have fun,” I remind her. She eases up after a few minutes and bops to the beat.

“I knew you were different, but I had no inkling you were crazy.” Al twirls toward a guy already dancing with another girl. I watch her successfully cut in while the girl whose dance partner she stole scowls at her. A large guy, about a foot taller than my five feet four inches, approaches me.

“You're bold,” he says with a smile. “No one talks to Phantom that way.”

“Are you asking me to dance, or are we using the dance floor to discuss little things that don't matter?”

The guy smiles and takes my hand.

“Let me answer that for Josh. You will decline the offer to dance and disappear before I make you disappear.” Recognizing the voice behind me, I roll my eyes. My potential dance partner drops my hand like it’s covered with lethal wasps and vanishes through the crowd.

“Do you always boss people around, or am I getting the royal treatment tonight?”

“You are getting the royal treatment, princess.”

I sigh and turn around to rid myself of his presence but stop dead in my tracks when he says, “Your hostility is excessive toward me—have we dated?” There's enough mirth in his facial expression for me to know his words are sarcastic.

Annoyance fills my chest. “Trust me, had we dated, you definitely would have remembered. Besides, you're not even close to being my type.”

He cocks an eyebrow at me and guffaws—he actually guffaws. “Now I know you're lying. Princess, I'm every girl's type.” He flashes an arrogant smirk. I seriously hate good-looking guys who know they’re good looking. “Besides my irresistible charm and my excessive good looks, I'm royalty—I’m, in fact, next in the line of succession.” He all but spells it out.

“Okay...”

“Okay? That's it?” He seems astounded I'm not impressed—maybe even offended. Typical royal. They expect praise for having a title most of them don’t even merit.

“I'm sorry, should there be more? Would you like a cookie, grand applause, or will a pat on the shoulder suffice for a title you didn't earn?”

He gazes at me, puzzled, but a heart-stopping playful grin marks the edges of his lips. I stare back at him, and for the second time tonight, I notice he is unrealistically good looking. His description of himself—excessively good looking—may be accurate. Seriously, he's a little more than beautiful, which won't be a problem, because I'm not in the market for a boyfriend—or a jerk.

“Are you always this feisty, or am I getting the royal treatment?”

A surge of dizziness followed by nausea washes over me like an angry tidal wave. I open my mouth to answer him but instead stumble. My vision blurs with scattered red dots that make it impossible to see. What the heck was in that drink? The pleasant smell of sage and cedar engulfs me as someone with powerful arms lifts me off the floor. I try to claw at their shoulders, wanting to get them off me. The last thing I need is to end up at a deranged weirdo's house with all of my clothes missing. Panicked, I gasp, struggling to suck in air. Whatever was in the drink is making it impossible to breathe. I swallow the knot in my throat and use my last breath to call for Al. The tiny red dots consuming my vision turn black, making the weight of my body vanish.

*All rights reserved. All works copyrighted by Milly Ly.*

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