“Hmm?” he asked genially, turning around to grin at me again with those hateful dimples.
“Let’s make a bargain.”
“I knew you’d see it my way,” he said. He walked back to me, pulling another vial from his shirt pocket. He sat down cross-legged, just out of reach, and began flipping it over his knuckles. It reminded me of a wolfhound my father used to have, the way she would gulp under her jeweled collar when he forced her to balance a bone on her nose until he gave her the signal to eat it. I gulped, too.
“First of all, who are you really?” he asked.
I closed my eyes, fighting for control of my emotions. I had never begged before, never been in any position that didn’t involve absolute power. I had definitely never been helpless at the bare feet of a Pinky, a serf, a paltry human. My hands made fists in the wine-colored taffeta of my gown, the talons piercing the ruffles and digging painfully into my palms.
“I am the second princess of Freesia. My name is Ahnastasia Medevna Krovnova. My father is the Blud Tsar of Freesia, and we reside in the Snow Palace of Muscovy.”
At mention of my name, his face underwent a strange ripple of emotions, from recognition to understanding to what appeared to be pity.
“Bad news, princess,” he said. “I follow the papers. You were declared dead four years ago.”
He cocked his head at me, squinting his eyes as he looked me up and down. I was accustomed to seeing awe, fear, and a polite admiration in a Bludman’s eyes. I had never had a human look so brazenly into my face, seeming to reach down into my soul and question what was found there. But this man did just that. And the answering look on his face showed pity. I flinched under his scrutiny.
“I don’t . . . I can’t . . .” I faltered, and closed my eyes. “I need more blood,” I whispered. “Please.”
With another look of pity, he uncorked the vial and held me up just enough for me to sip it. I allowed him to touch me, and gulped the blood as politely as possible. I emptied the vial and licked the lip of the glass clean.
“I’ve answered your question,” I said, my haughtiness returning with my strength. “Now you will answer mine. Who are you? And what are you? You smell wrong.”
“I’m Casper Sterling,” he said. It was unsettling, the way his eyes held mine. I refused to blink as I waited for the answers he owed me. “I’m the greatest musician in London. And I’m mostly drunk.”
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by D. S. Dawson
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First Pocket Star Books ebook edition April 2013
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ISBN 978-1-4767-1541-4
Table of Contents
Cover
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
‘Wicked as She Wants’ Excerpt
Copyright
Delilah S. Dawson, The Peculiar Pets of Miss Pleasance
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