Frost (Frost and Nectar #1)(5)

I nodded, even though I already felt dizzy. I could still hear Ashley’s high-pitched squeals, and those had to go.

“More,” I said slowly, and sighed. “Thanks. Andrew was too good-looking. Too perfect. I should have known better than to trust a man who was so pretty.”

Shalini shouted to the bartender, “Can we get a pitcher of margaritas? And can you turn up Hitched and Stitched? Someone’s getting sent home tonight.”

“I hope it’s Amberlee,” I said. “No, wait. I hope she stays. She’s batshit, and that makes her my favorite. She tried to curse Jennica with a curse candle.”

As the bartender filled the pitcher, a “breaking news” logo flashed on the TV above the bar, interrupting the video of a Hitched contestant drunkenly sobbing. A news reporter was standing on a street corner.

I stared at the screen.

“It’s just been announced,” said the grinning reporter, “that Torin, king of the fae, will be getting married this year.”

A hush fell over the bar. King Torin was the leader of the High Fae, a lethal group of fae who now ruled our world from a distance. Exactly the type of fae who wanted nothing to do with a commoner like me.

And yet, I found myself staring at the TV anyway, enraptured along with everyone else.





3





A VA


“A grand tournament of eligible fae women will be held to choose the bride,” continued the reporter. “Not every fae woman will be chosen to participate. Only one hundred will be selected from thousands of possible contestants, hand-picked by the king himself. His bride must demonstrate strength, grace—”

I rolled my eyes. “This is so outdated. Can’t he just meet someone and decide if he likes—”

“Shh!” Shalini practically clamped her hand over my mouth. “I love you, but I will actually murder you if you keep talking.”

Shalini, my completely human friend, was obsessed with the fae. I, on the other hand, was perfectly happy to keep my distance.

The fae had only revealed themselves to the human world about thirty years ago. At first, humans reacted with horror and revulsion—and unfortunately, that attitude had lasted for most of my childhood. But now? Humans couldn’t get enough of the fae. At some point, the fae had carefully crafted an image of wealth and glamour.

I had a sneaking suspicion they were still fairly terrifying behind the sophisticated fa?ade.

“King Torin,” the reporter said, beaming, “was born twenty-six years ago. It’s been anticipated for some time that he would choose a queen, in the ancient custom of tournament…”

I’d seen his picture a hundred times before—pale, a razor-sharp jawline, close-cropped dark hair. In this picture, he wore a black suit that accentuated his broad shoulders. King Torin had a devilish grin, and one of his black eyebrows arched.

Maybe it was the beer or the heartbreak, but I felt annoyed just looking at him. You could tell he loved himself.

Admittedly, it was hard to look away from his picture.

“Cocky bastard,” I slurred. Oh, yeah. I was drunk.

Shalini sighed. “I’ve heard he’s very mysterious. He has this whole tragic air about him, and no one knows why.”

That didn’t make any sense. “What’s tragic about being the richest man in the world? Do you know how many bars he could open if he felt like it? Or schools, for that matter? How many college degrees he could get?” I realized I was shouting.

Her eyes slid to the right. “I heard he has a guilty conscience. Supposedly, he’s murdered people…but he feels guilty about it. He’s all brooding and tortured.”

“What a catch! You know, if he were ugly, no one would be charmed by him, right? Being a murderer isn’t usually considered a positive trait.” I finished my margarita. That had gone fast.

“That’s the problem with the rich and powerful, isn’t it? And the stupidly beautiful. They never learn boundaries or normal empathy, and then the next thing you know, they’re sticking their dicks in actresses called Ashley.” I was vaguely aware that I’d yelled the last bit.

“Forget Andrew, Ava. Think of King Torin’s muscular arms. You’re fae! Why don’t you join the tournament?”

I snorted. “What, me? No. First of all, I wouldn’t be allowed. And second of all, I’d miss out on our fun sleepovers and Tudors marathons. And I’m going to get into baking. But maybe it could be, like, Tudor-era baking.”

She narrowed her eyes. “We’ve done two Tudors marathons already.”

“We can do Virgin Queen. Whatever.” I grinned. “I’ll make hot cross buns.”

I stared at the screen, watching the video of King Torin shot from a distance. He managed his public persona very carefully—well groomed, finely dressed, never so much as a stray lock of hair on his forehead—but there’d been a breach about a year ago. A picture had emerged from some dark corner of the internet of Torin rising from the ocean waves like a sea god, droplets glistening off his thickly corded muscles. With his sly grin and perfect features, his overall appearance was much like Henry Cavill in The Tudors crossed with Poseidon.

I mean, if you were into that kind of thing.

The image on the TV screen cut again. Now the video appeared to be a live feed from a helicopter. On the street below, a silver Lamborghini surrounded by a cavalcade of black motorcycles glided through traffic.