I follow her suspicious stare to a picture frame on the wall above the couch. The moving picture. Mack stands between Nick and Sebastian, all three trying to floss. The image plays over and over, each time a little bit different.

Note to self: get more video footage of Mack’s dancing skills for future blackmail.

It’s hilarious—and also very much imbued with magic.

As are other items, like the centerpiece of white tulips on the table. Each perfect flower blooms while giving off a perfume too strong to be real. And golden candles sparkle with magic from a three-tiered strawberry cake.

Vi’s critical gaze whips back to Ruby as she descends on a silver tray full of white chocolate truffles. “Summer, is that . . . the thing you told us about?”

“Yes.” I glance at Ruby, praying she’s on her best behavior. “Her name’s Ruby, and she’s not a thing, she’s a sprite.”

Unaware she’s being assessed, Ruby smashes a truffle bigger than her head into her mouth, lets out a loud belch, and breaks into a bizarre dance.

Vi’s eyes narrow. “Charming.”

Before Ruby can devour the second truffle, wild screeching draws my focus to the two blue-skinned sprites perched on the contemporary bronze light fixture above.

What the Fae hell?

The creatures dive bomb Ruby, and the three tumble together in battle. China shatters, tulip petals explode in the air, and my cake gets knocked to the delicate Angora rug below.

“Lily Pad. Dew Drop. No!” Nick scolds, rushing to stamp out the candles smoldering on the rug.

Vi’s mouth has fallen open in horror. “What are . . . those horrid little creatures?”

“Sebastian!” Nick glares at his husband. “I thought you locked them up.”

Sebastian frowns. “I did.”

Mack leans over and whispers, “Sebastian recently bought Nick two pet sprites to help with his anxiety while I’m gone. But they’re wicked, half-feral beasts, and they can’t find the black-market trader to return them.”

Eclipsa laughs. “Did the dealer not explain to you those are water sprites? Their habitat includes bogs and lakes, not high-rises and antique china. Without water, they become violent and deranged.”

Nick shoots Sebastian an I-told-you-so look.

Meanwhile, the fight between Ruby and the water sprites moves to the living room, quickly laying waste to a very expensive looking glass lamp and a pink phallic sculpture.

I would find Ruby’s predicament hilarious, if Aunt Vi didn’t look two seconds away from murdering everyone with the cake knife to her left.

Ugh. All my work over the summer break trying to make Vi accept the Fae world and it’s unraveling before my eyes. How will she ever accept that I’m a Fae if she hates everything about their world?

2

Zinnia takes one look at the worry on my face and jumps into action. “Vi, let’s get some fresh air. Lookie”—Zinnia waggles a half-empty pack of slims in front of her—“I brought your slims.”

Vi nods, clutching Zinnia’s hand, her shocked gaze never leaving the sprites as she lets Zinnia guide her toward the glass doors leading to the sweeping balcony. Nick, who knows everything about our family, thanks to his long gabfests with Zinnia, quickly whips up a martini for my aunt and rushes to follow.

Eclipsa begins some sort of spell to calm the sprites. While she and Sebastian circle the battling creatures, Mack drags me down the hall.

“Sorry this turned into such a shitshow,” she says. “But I stashed a couple cans of emergency frosting in my room.”

From the other end of the corridor, Sebastian screams, “Not the Neiman Marcus drapes!”

As soon as I cross into her room, my jaw goes slack. “Holy Fae ears, your lady-cave is bigger than our entire house in Texas.”

She waltzes across the floor, flips on some music, and says in Gaelic, “Mo taigh, do taigh.”

My house, your house.

The space is an open concept, with a zebra printed leather loveseat, curtained off reading nook, bathroom with a claw-footed tub, and a mini-fridge stocked full of Mountain Dew and orange Fanta. Her sprawling king-sized bed rests above on the loft, the railing decorated with flashing Faerie lights.

A skylight paints the hardwood floor in golden light, and neon orange and teal butterflies dive in the sunbeam like giant dust motes, their magic impossible to ignore. A slight breeze ruffles white lace curtains framing the open balcony door.

A floor-to-ceiling mirror hangs to my right. My reflection catches me off guard, and I briefly inspect the woman staring back.

My thick, wavy blonde hair is pulled into a high ponytail, streaks of sun-bleached platinum catching the light. Long, lean arms tanned from my daily runs give me a surfer girl vibe. The only makeup I wear is a thick sweep of eyeliner that makes my hazel eyes—more gold than green at the moment—appear larger than normal.

I spin, taking it all in. Myself. The room. The buttery light from the bajillion windows. “I don’t see how you ever leave this room.”

Mack’s grin is practically blinding. “I didn’t bring you here to talk about my room. And I have something waiting for you that’s even better than eating frosting by the spoonful.”

I snort. “Wrong. There’s literally nothing better than—”

That’s when I feel it. Feel him. Like a shock of electricity straight to my core.

Valerian.

The Winter Prince is leaned against the stone balcony railing, looking panty-dropping gorgeous in a fitted black tee and dark skinny-jeans. Despite the summer heat, snowflakes swirl around him. The wind tousles his wavy inky-blue hair to one side, showing off its thickness, and I immediately imagine running my fingers through it.

His lips tug into a smirk.

Dammit. So much better than frosting.

My belly tightens as his dark gaze drops to the tight curve of my black athletic pants. He drinks me in, slowly, and I find myself drawn into his icy orbit. Pulled along by some stupid, invisible thread that grows stronger by the day.

Double dammit.

“Have fun with the ILB,” Mack teases, the psycho, before she busies herself in her bathroom.

ILB: Instant lady boner. Our favorite nickname for the Winter Prince. Since we can’t say his name aloud, and we chat about him a lot, he’s developed quite a few nicknames and acronyms.

SOAS: Sex on a stick. PESG: Pointy-eared sex god. FBD: Future baby daddy. Mack gets all the credit for that last one.

His dark stare draws me from my thoughts, and I peer at him behind my lashes, surprised by the intense swirl of emotions raging inside me.

Just like Mack, I haven’t seen Valerian for weeks. I thought, or maybe hoped, having him out of my life would lessen the attraction between us. He spent the last month hunting down the Fae responsible for nearly killing him in the Wild Hunt. Cal was a dead end.

Whoever Cal reports to, he’s been spelled with powerful magic not to tell.

Not that Valerian didn’t torture him anyway, just to be sure.

The phone Valerian sent me to keep in touch buzzes in my pocket. Grinning, I pull the iPhone out and stare at the message.

Valerian’s gorgeous face peers from my phone, along with the words, Happy birthday, Princess.

Pausing by a giant Andy Warhol style portrait of Mack, I type back, Someone figured out how to use the camera option.

Valerian’s court frowns on mortal trappings like technology. In fact, if his father knew he had a phone, he would probably flip.

My screen lights up in response. Why are you walking so slow?

Maybe I want to give you a show.

Holy crap. I stare at my words. Yes, idiot, you just said that.

I swore when I left school that Valerian was off limits, that the soulbond between us was too dangerous to accept—at least, until I can figure out what I want.

But here I am, flirting like a deranged sex addict.

I shove the phone into my pocket, resolve to control myself, and march toward him, only swaying my hips a little bit. But as soon as I slip onto the balcony, the heat of the New York summer gives way to delicious cold, and something inside my heart—where I feel the bond between us the most—jerks taut.

Whoa. I’d forgotten how intense that is.

My breath frosts out in a crystalline cloud, highlighting the space between us. Each inch feels like a mile.

What would it feel like to finally accept this thing? The one and only time we let ourselves give into it, the experience was beyond anything I’ve ever felt. Like, toe-curling, soul-leaving-my-body, mind-melting pleasure.

I shake the thought from my head. Giving in now, even once, would be like Zinnia opening that bag of barbeque chips.

Once I had one taste of Valerian, I’d lose all reason, all control.

Once I give in, I won’t be able to quit him.

The thought is terrifying.

The walking Fae potato chip smiles at me, his grin practically a weapon. “Hello, Princess. How does it feel to be so . . . young?”

“Technically, I’m your age,” I point out. Thanks to Eclipsa’s lessons over the break, I know as the reincarnated princess from the Summer Court, my soul is actually over hundreds and hundreds of years old.

“Right. How does it feel to be ancient, then?”

That silky, teasing voice reaches inside me, each word that leaves those beautiful lips a spark warming my middle. Smoldering that intense attraction I keep deeply hidden.

Don’t open the bag, Summer. Don’t. Open. The. Beautiful. Sexy. Bag.

“I prefer perfectly aged,” I say, skirting around him to peer out across the New York skyline. “So, did you find the Fae responsible for the attack during the Wild Hunt?”

Whoever used Valerian’s name to bind his power and then set darklings on us is still out there.

In my periphery, I see him shake his head. “Not yet.”

“Eclipsa said you suspect someone in your own court?”

“Perhaps.”

His caginess only piques my curiosity.

“What about Cal?” Just mentioning the Fae changeling’s name makes me shudder. “You couldn’t get anything out of him?”