“Her tongue,” the first girl suggests behind a deceptively sweet smile. She’s athletic with a thick head of beautiful caramel brown hair streaked blonde, piercing honey-brown eyes, and tawny skin.

The second girl, the smallest of the three, shakes her head at the idea, sending her chin-length black hair swaying around a delicate chin. Strange golden eyes more animalistic than human cut a sharp contrast against her bone-white skin. “Then she can’t scream. Why not freeze her feet to the ground so she can’t run, but can still cry out?”

Holy hell. They’re sociopaths. All of them.

“Fabulous idea, Kimber,” Inara purrs, her praise making the black-haired girl beam. “Just for that, I might let you drink from her before I kill her.”

Despite my fear, for a moment, I give the dark-haired girl a second look as my curiosity surpasses my survival instincts. She’s a real-life vampire, a member of the Mortal Beast’s court.

Welcome to Everwilde, Summer.

My awe takes a backseat as the pack of murderous girls close in, adrenaline flooding my veins. I fight the overwhelming urge to recoil. To run.

Too late. A blast of unimaginable cold bites my skin.

With a cry, I fall to one knee as frost crackles over my flesh and a marrow-deep chill fills my bones. At the same time, horrible, aching pressure begins to build in my skull like a brain freeze times a million.

I can’t move. Can’t call out. Helpless—I feel so helpless.

My sprite suddenly darts over my shoulder, putting her tiny body between me and Inara. Her papery wings flutter wildly as she holds up a tiny hand. “Wait! She will go . . . won’t you, human?”

The cold eases, if only a bit. Both sprite and Evermore glare at me. My sprite is nodding her head in an effort to convince me this is the best option. Magus, too, frantically nods his head as he tries to coax me into agreeing.

The rational part of me does agrees, but my body has entered fight-or-flight mode, and it’s determined not to enter that cage even if that means freezing to death.

I have a choice: let fear control me and refuse, in which case Inara will turn both the sprite and me into popsicles.

Or overcome my terror and let myself be caged.

I glance to my right at the Winter Court crowd and lock eyes with a lithe, beautiful Fae male. Even standing in a crowd of gorgeous beings, his arresting looks draw the eye. The hood of the silver cloak he wears covers most of his head. White fur lines the cloak like snow. And two owl pins glitter on each shoulder.

Still, I can make out short, messy hair the deepest blue I’ve ever seen tumbling over his forehead. Rich silver-blue eyes strike a stark contrast to his pale, almost bloodless skin.

The terrifyingly beautiful Fae from last night.

A tremor reverberates straight to my core. As if he can feel it, he smirks at me, and something about the tilt of his totally kissable lips dredges up the memory of not just the roof, but the forest . . .

The cloak. The owl pins. The smarmy expression. That explains the crazy reaction I had last night. I’m staring at my tormentor, the one who condemned me to this prison under the name of the Winter Prince.

And he’s smirking at me. Smirking.

Fury overrides my attraction to him. Fury and shame. I should have known last night who he was. Did he laugh with his Fae buddies over my stupidity? What if he felt my strange attraction to him?

I groan internally, but my anger numbs any embarrassment I feel. He thinks I’m here for his enjoyment. He thinks I’m already beaten. Well screw him. I’m a fighter, and I refuse to go down like this. I refuse to give him one more second of pleasure watching me struggle.

Drawing upon every ounce of willpower, I stand, the thin layer of ice cracking, and look Inara straight in the eyes. “I’ll go in the cage.”

A disappointed sigh flees Inara’s lips, but she steps out of the way, waving a slender hand with silver-lacquered fingernails at the cage.

“Run along, little human. I’ll see you again soon . . . if you manage to survive until the Selection.”

Her tone makes it clear she doesn’t think I will. Just like the headmistress. Just like every single Fae in this room.

Time to prove her wrong. Time to prove them all wrong.

13

Only once I’m away from Inara and her friends does the air warm to a tolerable level. My veil of frost becomes water dampening my skin and clothes. Red carpeted walkways divide each court’s side. With my head held high, I find the closest walkway and stride toward the cage.

My former tormentor’s icy gaze bores into my back, and once again I get the feeling he gets off on this. My struggle, my embarrassment and pain.

Annoyingly, there’s also that strange bond connecting us, as if an invisible thread travels from his heart to mine.

Magic. Has to be.

I shake my head to dislodge the bizarre feeling and push on. Each step closer makes it harder to pull in air. But, between my sprite literally shoving between my shoulder blades, my embarrassment, and my resolve, I keep moving forward until my boots clop over the dais.

There are countless people packed inside the golden, bell-shaped cage. White jasmine and ivy cord around the bars and scent the air. A Fae with long tufted ears and a donkey tail grins at me as he pulls open the closest door, the hinges creaking. It’s one of seven doors.

See? Seven doors means seven ways to escape at the first sign of being trapped.

My mind seems to accept this fact just fine, but my body is paranoid. It’s been inside a cage before and it hasn’t forgotten. Cold sweat slithers down my spine, my heart twerking to its own panicky song. A pit of terror slices open inside me.

I’m about to bolt when a pretty girl rushes past the guard and grabs me by the elbow, guiding me into the cage. Her fingers are warm and gentle as they press into my flesh, and something about her easy confidence and beaming smile calm me.

As I pass some of the other humans, they snicker under their breath. A gorgeous girl with long curly chestnut hair and enough makeup on to stock a Sephora says, “Who let Trailer Park in?”

She has the air of someone who’s never even seen a trailer park, much less lived in one. If she had she’d know they’re convenient, economical, and can be moved when necessary.

A boy winks at me, but his lips twist hatefully as he does it. His friend makes a lewd gesture I won’t even deign to describe.

“I’ll help you win if you promise to come by my room later,” he says.

My jaw grinds, but I ignore them. Compared to the Fae, who can actually freeze me with magic, their words barely even sting.

What’s the saying? Ice and snow may freeze my toe, but words will never hurt me. I totally just made that up, but it fits and I’m keeping it.

“It’s not so bad,” my hero says, squeezing my arm. She’s curvy and short, maybe five-two, with a body that makes mine feel boyish in comparison and plump lips meant for smiling. “This is all for show. The Evermore do like their ceremonies.” She gives my arm a nice pat. “Didn’t your parents prepare you for what’s to come?”

I shake my head, hiding the wince from her touch. My tattooed flesh is still a bit tender.

She must see that I’m still really close to panicking, because she says, “Here. Don’t look at the bars. Focus on me.”

I do. Wow. She’s really pretty.

Deep-set cornflower-blue eyes. Thick chocolate-brown hair cut chin-length and streaked hot pink and purple. On either side of a pert nose, a smattering of freckles dust her tawny cheeks.

“I’m a legacy.” Her face beams with pride. “My parents actually met here twenty years ago.”

My eyes widen. “And they . . . bargained your life for a wish?”

She shrugs. “They couldn't get pregnant, and their . . . circumstances made adopting nearly impossible, at least back then. So they summoned a Fae and, well, the rest is history.”

I don’t dare point out the irony of wishing for a baby only to bargain it away as a slave.

She must see the expression on my face because she adds, “It’s only for four years. Plus, they both survived so there’s no reason to think we won’t. And there are perks, if you can look past the Evermore’s superiority complex.”

“That’s a no from me,” I mutter. I’m one-hundred percent positive I will never be able to overlook the Evermore’s asshole tendencies.

“A few are okay . . .” she offers.

“Really? Which ones?”

She glances around. “I’ve heard those from the Summer Court are nice.”

I raise a dubious eyebrow. “Nice? Or just not serial killers? Because there’s a difference.”

She laughs. “You’re right, they all suck.” She juts out a slim hand. “My name’s Mackenzie Fairchild, by the way. Everyone calls me Mack.”

I do the same. “Summer Solstice.”

“Summer Solstice?” A grin shows off her perfectly straight white teeth. “Your parents really got creative, huh?”

“Yeah . . .” I look away.

The problem with having dead parents—aside from the obvious—is explaining that in conversation. Most people either get really quiet or really talkative, but it’s always awkward.

Time to change the subject. “So,” I say. “What are we doing inside the cage, other than being ogled like fresh meat?”

“That’s basically it.” She tucks a hot-pink strand behind her ear. “Although I prefer the word ‘appraised’ to ogled.”

Appraised?

As my gaze travels over the others, I discover they’re all dressed in luxurious cool-toned clothes similar to the Winter Court attire. Even Mack. She sports a gorgeous ensemble of silver pants and a low-cut ivory blouse, dark blue embroidery lining the hem of her bodice. A royal blue jacket of expensive velvet tapers to accentuate her slim waist and curvy hips, and knee-high white Jimmy Choo boots pull everything together.

I pluck subconsciously at my dirty sweatshirt. Guess I didn’t get the Fae-inspired wardrobe memo . . . thanks, Evermore dickwad. Not that I’d ever be able to match their style with my goodwill inspired closet, but he didn’t know that.