The Fae Princes (Vicious Lost Boys #4)(27)

“Christ,” Vane says. “What are you still doing here?”

“Plotting,” the man says with a devastatingly bright smile.

I think my mouth drops open when I take in the sight of the newcomer. He’s just a few inches taller than Vane, but he’s got the same build, and the same stunning features.

Except where Vane has one black eye and one violet, this man has unnaturally green eyes that when they land on me, produce a full-body shiver.

The Crocodile.

“Your Darling is cold,” Roc says. “Let me give her my jacket.”

“I don’t need a jacket.”

“She doesn’t need your jacket,” Vane says.

“Very well.” Roc puts a cigarette between his lips and lights the end. I glance around to see if this is allowed, but no one stops him. Maybe no one cares about smoking in the islands, considering half of them seem to be immortal.

“Looks like your Never King is having a bad night.” Roc points toward the bar with the smoking end of his cigarette.

Vane’s eyes tighten.

Pan is paler than normal as Tinker Bell speaks to him.

“Should we go get him?” I ask Vane.

Roc takes a hit from his cigarette and then blows out the smoke. “Tick, tock, baby brother.”

“Shut up, asshole.”

There is an unsettled feeling in my gut. The dread again. But now I’m not so sure if it’s mine or Pan’s.

I’m having a hard time telling the difference between Vane’s shrouded emotions and Pan’s wild ones. They come and go like shooting stars. There one minute, gone the next.

“Stay with her,” Vane says to his brother. “And protect her as if she were Lainey.”

“I’m not a babysitter.”

“Say it, Roc.”

“Fine.” Roc flicks the lit cigarette onto the stone floor and crushes it with his boot. “I swear it.”

“Stay with him,” Vane says to me, his tone urgent. “He’s an asshole, but he can protect you if something goes wrong.”

“What will go wrong?” I ask sarcastically, but he’s already slipping through the crowd.

I have an urge to follow him, but I know he’s the only one keeping us together right now and I don’t want to be one more person he has to manage.

“Dance with me.”

I turn back to Roc and find him holding out his hand.

“In this dress?” I pull up on the long skirt. “Not a chance.”

Roc ducks down, brandishes a knife, and slices through the long train.

“What the hell?” I say as the fabric tears away in one fluid motion. “You just ruined my dress.”

“Did I?” He straightens, tosses the extra fabric aside like it’s trash, and holds out his hand again. His expression is unreadable, but his gaze is searching. “Bit of advice, Darling. Do not go into enemy territory wearing a dress you can’t run or dance in.”

He smiles again, flashing that row of bright white teeth, incisors sharp like fangs. God, he is devastatingly handsome. No wonder Wendy fell for him. Apparently us Darlings have a thing for morally grey assholes with rock-hard abs and cunning good looks.

“I don’t really know how to dance.”

The band is playing a tune with an upbeat tempo, so the dancers, while embraced, are swirling around the room like we’re all in some regency romance.

“I know how to dance for the both of us. Let me show you.” He steps into me and hooks his arm around my waist and draws me into him. He smells like rich tobacco and something else, like crushed velvet and gilded sin.

He takes my hand in his. “Just follow my lead and I’ll do the rest.”

He swirls us into the throng of dancers and the room spins into a kaleidoscope of glowing light and color.

Now I’m smiling.

It feels good to move.

Roc spins us again. I give into his momentum, trying not to let my feet get tangled with his.

All of us dancers are moving in some kind of predetermined choreography. Couples swirl in. They spin out. The music grows, filling the room all around us. A bright, warm sense of joy fills my chest and I finally give in, letting Roc carry us, letting the music keep me buoyant.

There is something about a collective act, when dozens of people are connected in one moment of shared joy that feels otherworldly.

Tears spring to my eyes. Because it feels good and innocent and I forgot what it was just to enjoy something for what it is.

We’ve all been caught up in saving the island with hardly any room for joy.

The music stops and the crowd comes to a stop with it, clapping for the musicians.

Roc is shoulder to shoulder with me as he shows his appreciation, several rings on his fingers flashing beneath the light. “Was that so bad?” he shouts to me over the noisiness of the crowd.

“I suppose not.”

“Then let’s do another.”

“What, really?”

“Do you have somewhere better to be, Darling girl?”

The band picks a slower tune this time, and the dancers switch their movements. It’s clear everyone knows the choreography that goes with every piece of music, and apparently, so does Roc.

Within seconds, we’re moving with the assembled like a tine on a cog, spinning around the room.