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Sneak Peek

Want a sneak peek of what's coming next for Rebecca Grey? Whims of the Wicked is available for preorder on Amazon and you can keep scrolling for the first chapter!

Winter Snow

CHAPTER ONE – Sonnet

 

One might think that because we are lesser fairies, our courts would not be as vicious as the high Fae, but they’d be wrong. Very wrong. Especially for any fairy like me; born with the pointed ears of the Fae with the same long lanky body but significantly less magic. Without any magic, actually. 

Thinking of my impending return to society, sweat coats my palms and then almost immediately turns to ice as a winter wind shoots down the dirt path and rustles my cloak. Thick parchment crinkles in my hand as I fist my fingers around it. The first snow of winter drifts down from the fluffy gray clouds that loom over Bitten Woods. Between the rustle of bare branches, a clacking noise begins to rise. Large beastly flowers snap their toothy mouths toward the movement of the flakes lazily falling toward them. The woods are full of danger, but never as badly as at night when the flowers and trees show their fangs. 

Carefully, I open the folded bit of paper to glance down at my list and angle myself away from the edges of the path. This bit of trees hasn’t gotten its name because the plants are particularly kind. Flowers bloom all year round in our little town of Daydale, but the most beautiful plants here are cruel if one gets too close. Ignoring the flurry of movement on either side of me as a large hydrangea straightens to catch snow with a snap of its jaw, I mentally tick through my plan to save Yule from being an utter disaster. This will be the first Yule without Mother and after everything my family has gone through, we deserve the best holiday imaginable.

Thus, my plan was hatched. First, I will be attending Lillian Harlow’s ball, the start of the many events that count down to Yule. An invite to such a party is almost guaranteed since Lillian is a long-time friend and is one of the few simple tasks on my list. This party will be my opportunity to show everyone in the Court of Frost that I’m not some magicless broken thing to be pitied and avoided. Because that’s what people have done since we lost mother. Avoided us. Without her, we fell from our standing and lost whatever support we might have been given. Obviously, I’m not bitter about it or anything. That is how court works after all. Okay, maybe I’m a tad bitter. Because, how dare they kick us when we were already down? Father and Merry—my little sister—did not deserve to be treated like that while we were mourning. And neither did I. 

Anyway—I’m getting off track here—I’ll attend the Harlows' ball where I plan to be so absolutely charming and not-at-all-broken that I catch the attention of Cassius Calloway. The quintessential golden boy. The most eligible bachelor in Daydale. The heir of the hottest and most powerful family in our lesser court. The Calloways always host the largest, most exclusive party of the year, the Yuletide Ball. I’ve never been invited before, but I’ve only been old enough to attend such events for a year, and six months of that have been spent garbed in black dresses and closed up in the tiny shack we call a home. 

Achieving an invitation to such a party makes the rest of my list seem almost easy. Sure, I’d need a date to the Yuletide Ball, but once I got my hands on an invitation, men would line up to take me. That is if Cassius himself hasn’t already fallen head over heels for me. And why wouldn't he? I’m great. Then all I need to make this the perfect Yule would be to get a kiss under the mistletoe and take whatever savings I manage to gather since starting my work with Dr. Lowen to buy my sister and father a gift. 

This is a doable list. Right? Yes. I can do this. I will do this. 

For Merry. For Father. For Mother, may her soul forever rest in peace. For me. 

While Mother passed down her stick straight black hair, blue eyes, and button nose, she didn’t pass down so much as a lick of her power. Which is really such a shame when magic is what grants standing in court. Now six months since her passing, I’m expected to shed my mourning clothes and return to high society where gossip could ruin you and parties brimming with power-hungry mothers and their practically vampiric daughters looking to find husbands loom around every corner. Scary. Not only should I return, but I am also supposed to be one of them. Or should attempt to be at the very least. Though I doubt very much I’ll find a husband. With no magic, no fangs, and no conniving mother at my side, I might very well be eaten alive. My father is nothing more than an out-of-work blacksmith with a bad back. My sister…well, as wonderful as Merry is, she’s shown no signs of having our mother’s gifts. 

I let out a long sigh, my breath clouding in front of my face, as I fold the parchment. I can do this, I remind myself. I can wow them all. And society be damned, I can do it all without any magic. 

At my left, a large blue tulip arches toward me, smiling to reveal its pointed teeth before attempting to take a bite out of my skirt. I bat the plant away. At the age of twenty, I’ve walked through these woods with only the light of the moon to guide my steps home more and more frequently. The flowers aren’t so bad as long as you stay out of their reach. 

Clutching my bag in one hand and my list in the other, I trudge through the snow that’s begun to gather in a thin layer over the dirt. White clusters of flakes cling to my curling fringe and the length of my hair piled on top of my head. I try to shake the snow off only for it to double its vigor as the clouds open up. Pebbles crunch under my boots. I squint to try and see where the path curves ahead and find a lump stretched out across my path, only yards away. 

What is that? 

My eyes narrow as if that might enhance my eyesight. It does nothing of the like and the lump remains only a lump. I stop. How peculiar. Maybe someone lost something from their carriage or wagon as they drove through? Could it be an animal? Or—

A groan of pain comes from the shape that is now very decidedly a man. 

Great. Perfect. Just what I want when I’m already exhausted and my fingers feel like ice. 

Still, my pulse ticks faster. My heart threatens to leap up into my throat. Someone is hurt, possibly left for dead where so few traverse. Honestly, they are lucky that I even stumbled upon them at all. 

Hurrying forward toward the man, I ignore the blisters on the back of my feet that feel as though they’ll rub open. Excess fabric from my skirt sways and flicks until I hiss and clutch the material as I run. 

“Sir? Are you injured?” Cold seeps through my many layers as I drop down onto my knees at his side. I’m far from trained, but I can hold a bandage to a bleeding wound and act as a crutch until I get him where he needs to be. Dr. Lowen’s office is only a ten-minute walk back in the other direction. 

The man lies on his side, curled tightly into himself, his large muscular body nearly double the size of mine. I blink down at his all-black attire, spotted with white snow that melts almost as soon as it lands. Reaching, I grunt as I roll his body toward me. Even his hair is black—no, not hair. A hat? 

My brows pinch. He turns. A black mask is pulled over his head, only revealing golden brown eyes. In the next breath, his hand curls around my throat, not enough pressure to cut off my airflow, but enough to hold me still. Goosebumps form along my flesh. Can he feel my increasing pulse underneath his thumb that strokes along my skin? Not a single callous mars his fingers, his skin somehow still so soft against mine. 

“Give me all the coin you’ve got in that bag of yours and you’ll be free to go.” Low and rough, his voice sends a shiver down my spine.

Am I being robbed right now? Of course I am. Just the cherry on top of an already terrible six months. 

Narrowing my gaze on his, I stiffen. There are coins in my bag. A week’s pay for my work, but I need that money to buy my family Yule gifts and help supplement Father’s income. I’ll be damned if he thinks I’m going to hand that over. Who is this terror that thought to rob a woman blind on her way home? What an absolute asshole. Like a storybook villain, this one. 

So I do the only thing I can think to do. I grip the straps of my bag, thankfully heavy with my latest read, and swing it with every ounce of strength right into his head. The hit lands with a satisfying slap.

His hand releases me. Success! Sucking in a steadying breath, I harness the rush of anger at the stranger for trying to fool me and swing again. And again. And again. Then again for good measure. I beat him as though he is little more than a rug needing the dust knocked out of it. Truly, I should consider doing some sort of sport because I’ve got an impressive swing.

“How dare you!” I seethe, standing for better leverage. “Trying to rob a woman on her way home. You’re nothing more than…” I truly can’t find an insult fitting enough and settle on, “than a rat!”

He grunts at a particularly well-aimed shot to his gut. Go me! His arms windmill wildly to take hold of my bag. The hit I managed to take at his head has spun his black mask enough that his eyes are now covered. If I wasn’t so furious I might laugh. Next, I’ll aim for his groin. That will show him.

“Stop! Stop, woman, stop!” he growls, finally snatching up one of my wrists. 

But if I am to be attacked and robbed, I deserve to see the face of the offender. With my one free hand, I stretch to grab the material atop his head, far finer than I expected it to be, and pull it away. Tufts of hair as white as the snow stick out at all angles around his pointed ears. Full lips spread into a sneer somehow accentuating his high cheekbones and youthful face. He’s beautiful. And he’s…familiar. 

Oh no.

Gasping, I grip the mask. The thief who has come to rob me is none other than Malcom Black. I’ve never gotten close to the man, but I know him from a distance. His family is one of the three richest and most powerful in the Court of Frost. Right alongside the Calloways. 

So why is he here trying to take my money?

“You’re a feral little thing, aren’t you?” He expels a long breath, eyes searching my face with no glint of recognition in them. He truly doesn’t know who I am. And why would he? I’m basically a no one. 

“You tried to rob me,” I manage to answer after several heartbeats. My pulse has risen to the quickness of a hummingbird’s wings. Malcom Black. Malcom Black. MALCOM-FUCKING-BLACK is here gripping my wrist and scowling at me. 

“Well, now that you’ve seen my face, I doubt I’ll be doing much of that.” Those brown eyes dart to the mask still clutched in my hand, slide to my face, then down my body mostly hidden by the modest garb I wear for work, then to my wrist still circled within his grasp. One by one, he lifts his fingers from my skin as though he’s disgusted to have ever touched me. “You’ve got an arm on you; I’ll give you that. What, are you a female boxer?”

“A secretary, actually. I’m so sorry. If I’d known it was you…”

“You’d have given me all of your coin?” His large hands sweep down his well-fitted black shirt and trousers brushing away debris and melting snowflakes. 

How did he manage to lie on the ground with no cloak or coat to keep him warm? How long did he wait for someone to amble down this path? 

“No,” I say, firmly, but maybe I wouldn’t have hit him hard enough to turn the side of his perfectly handsome face that brilliant shade of red. My own cheeks must be flushed a similar color because heat rushes underneath my skin as embarrassment floods me. I crane my neck to look up at him fully. Goodness, he is tall. “Why, might I ask, are you trying to rob me?”

“Tried,” he corrects. “Tried and failed.” His shoulders drop and almost curl. “This was a terrible idea. I—” He pinches his nose rushing through his words. “I’m a fool who lost a great deal in gambling and am trying to make up that debt before my father notices and cuts me off.”

Malcom Black, the third richest and most eligible bachelor in Daydale, has resorted to robbery to accommodate his debt. How much could he have possibly lost to gambling? Likely a far greater number than even I can imagine. 

“So you’ve resorted to taking women’s purses, Mr. Black?” I almost snort at the absurdity of this entire situation. “I should swing at you again for such a terrible idea. And then again because you were so terrifically bad at it. If you can’t take a hit, then you shouldn’t have tried at all.” But I won’t hit him again. Even if I want to. Because this is Malcom Black for crying out loud.

I lift my bag and he flinches, though I’ve only brought it closer to my chest to clutch tighter. Just in case he works up the courage to try again. 

“And you could’ve done better?” he accuses, rubbing at his red cheek. 

“Yes.” I plant my hands on my hips. “In fact, I would have. You left yourself wide open for that hit. You should have come up from behind me to limit my range of motion instead of this foul act.”

Wonderful. Now I’m giving him tips on how to steal. 

Shut up, Sonnet. Just shut up.

“I’ll keep that in mind for next time. What do you keep in that bag of yours anyway? It hurts like the dickens.” 

I give him my best sheepish grin before plucking out the thick hardbound book. “Poetry.” 

“Just my luck to run into a well-read woman. And your name?”

“I’m not in the habit of sharing my name with men who try to steal from me.”

And maybe if he doesn’t know my name, we can forget this entire thing ever happened.

“Well, my apology would not be good enough if I did not address it to you directly.” He folds his arms over his wide chest, the pose showing off the powerful curve of his biceps. Damn, this man is beautiful. Terrible. Annoying. And absolutely handsome. If he’d wanted to hurt me he could have. It would have been nothing to him to man handle the bag away from me. That has to count for something, doesn’t it? 

“Sonnet. Sonnet Weatherwood.”

He nods and looks me up and down as if to see if that name fits me. Then he nods again. I shift my weight from foot to foot, uneasy at the heaviness of his possible judgment. Yet, I wasn’t the one who had tried to commit a crime. Why should I care what he thinks of me? I straighten, holding my chin high. Yes, even though he is who he is, he should be ashamed of what has taken place here. No true gentleman would ever be caught participating in such a terrible thing. 

Or maybe Malcom Black isn’t a gentleman at all. 

Malcom looks down at his feet and cocks his head. I catch the familiar crinkle of parchment as he takes a step back and plucks none other than my list for Yule up off the ground. My cheeks go from warm to burning and the sensation dips down to my chest and rises all the way to my ears. In my haste and the self-preservation I’d managed to drop my list. 

No. No…No. This cannot be happening to me. 

“What is this?” he mumbles. 

“I dropped that. I’ll take it back now.” I lunge for the list. 

He lifts his arm out of my reach. “Interesting.”

“Hardly. Now give it back.” My voice betrays me in its strain. Because of course it does. Can’t even trust my own body to have my back.

Malcom arches a brow and begins unfolding the parchment. 

“Interesting,” he repeats as a wolf-like smile spreads across his gorgeous face. 

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