ChapterOne
Everyone thinks they want a fairy-tale life, but those stories always focus on the wrong things. Cinderella rises above her circumstances when she enchants the prince. No one stops to consider that everything the prince knew about her was a deception. None of it was hers. Not the dress, not the shoes, not the pumpkin carriage. She pulled fictional history’s greatest bluff. What happened next? After the wedding in the castle, did she rise to the demands of being a princess? Did the townspeople magically set aside their envy and spite and accept her as a regent? Or did happily ever after come with a dark and dangerous edge? It’s possible Cinderella found herself in an equally difficult predicament, simply serving a new master.
I think about that story a lot when I ponder my own situation. Seven and I have known each other since we were children and our love is built on more than just a single night’s dancing, but the divide between who he is and who I am couldn’t be more complete. And I wonder if we will ever close that gap. Will there ever be a time I don’t have to bluff? Will my relationship with Seven ever be accepted as real? I don’t know. At the moment, I’m still riding in the pumpkin.
“Tip your head back and to the right, Sophia.” Evangeline motions for me to adjust my position and I do, arching over the poker table at an angle that I’m sure makes the best of my figure but is terribly uncomfortable. The elbow I’m braced on prickles as if it’s fallen asleep, and I’m starving. I missed lunch because the photographer is in a time crunch. My stomach growls a threat that it might start eating me from the inside.
Still, I smile as the camera shutter releases a series of fast clicks and the photographer, an artsy-looking leprechaun with long silver hair, moves around me. At least my outfit is flattering. With me leaning back like this, the floor-length dress splits midthigh, revealing one gold stiletto and the majority of my right leg. The sparkly red number hugs my waist and gives my breasts a marvelous, strapless boost. There’s no room for a bra of any kind. The thing is backless—convenient, considering my wings have to be out for this shoot—but that means my upper half is precariously tucked into a stiff panel of fabric that runs from my sacrum to just above my nipples. Honestly, the fact I’m not spilling out of it is a feat of fashion genius. I’d thank luck or magic, but being fae, I’d feel it if there was any involved. We can sense both even if we can’t always see them at work. Alas, my skin does not tingle and my own luck is nestled deep within me, snoring peacefully.
“Okay, darling, turn toward me and look directly at the camera, ankles crossed, both hands on the table on either side of your hips.” The photographer squats down, adjusting his lens.
I do as he asks, beaming down at him, but he doesn’t take the picture.
“Drop the smile. Look at me like I’m a competitor. I’m the player standing between you and a big win.” He makes a few more adjustments while I try to dredge up the right look.
I spent the majority of my sixteen years in the United States supporting myself by playing poker. One of the skills that came with the territory was the ability to hide my actual emotions behind a poker face, the ability to either be unreadable or to telegraph an emotion that is inconsistent with what I’m feeling. The look I give the photographer now is one of supreme confidence and determination. It’s an expression meant to intimidate. I’m projecting intensity, telling my opponent that I’m holding cards so good they might as well push their chips into the middle of the table right now. My smile dissolves, but not entirely. I close my lips but keep them slightly upturned at one corner, preserving the tightness in my eyes. When I lower my chin, my dark hair falls over one eye.
“Gods, Sophia,” Evangeline says in a low voice. “You look like you’re holding the secret to the universe behind your back.”
“Maybe I am,” I say, sending her a wink.
The photographer stands, studying his screen. “That’s it. I think we got it. Thanks, darling. You were a wonderful model.” He takes a step forward and kisses me on the cheek, his breath skating over my skin. He’s a leprechaun, but up until this point, he’s kept his luck to himself. Now I feel it beside me like a large, predatory bird. I give him a nod, and he hurriedly collects his things before kissing Evangeline on both cheeks. “You’ll have the comps tomorrow by end of day.”
“Thanks, Mac.” She brushes her shiny red hair over one shoulder as she watches him leave.
Only a few short weeks ago, I thought the Delaneys hated me, especially Evangeline’s brother, Seven. He stood me up at the Yule ball when we were teenagers and humiliated me in front of everyone in Dragonfly Hollow. Turns out Seven didn’t want to hurt me at all. He was a victim of his psycho father, Chance, who’d poisoned him with blue iron—the only substance in the world capable of draining a fairy’s luck—and kept him locked in a dungeon beneath his hunting cabin.
Weirder still, it turns out Seven is Arden’s father. That little revelation is thanks to some serious magical interference by Godmother. I still don’t completely understand her motives, but I do know this: Seven and I deserve to make up for lost time. Unfortunately, until we have a chance to tell Arden about her unlikely origins, we’ve decided to keep our relationship a secret. We want to give her choices. We want to give her a chance to control the narrative about her own life.
Seven’s responsible for getting me this job teaching poker, and his sister, Evangeline, the head of public relations for Lucky Enterprises, is leaning into the moment. This photo shoot is just the start. I have interviews with all the major news outlets in Devashire scheduled over the next two weeks, at the end of which I’ll be teaching my very first class.
“You did a great job today.” Evangeline hits me with one of her ten-thousand-watt smiles. Just like her brother, she’s supermodel attractive, the kind of person who walks into the room and turns every head. She’s tall, thin, and radiates confidence. But then that’s what being a leprechaun does for you. Leprechauns are always beautiful. Their luck seeps out of their pores.
“Thanks. I’m not used to being photographed. I hope Mac can get what he needs from what we did today.”
She laughs. “Are you kidding me? Sophia, I don’t think you realize how lovely you are.”
“For a pixie,” I add in for her.
“For anyone. If it weren’t for the wings, I’d swear you were a leprechaun. I think living among humans was good for you.” She shakes her head. “That look in your eyes. I’ve never seen a pixie look like that. You’re a badass. And if people knew what you really did for Devashire, they’d treat you like one.”
What I did was help take down her father and prove he was imprisoning pixies in his rural sex dungeon. He also murdered a few people for reasons that only he and maybe Godmother fully understand. Together, Seven and I proved Chance was guilty of murder. He’s now serving a life sentence in Ashgate Prison.
I try not to think too much about the night we took him down. It still shakes me. I’m not sure if what Eva says is true—if Devashire society knew, would they respect me more? It’s a moot point. Godmother took credit for solving the case, and the only people who know my part in it are Seven, Eva, and my friends River and Penelope, all of whom have been sworn to secrecy. One does not challenge Godmother’s narrative of events. Not unless one wants to have one’s wings broken.
I glance down at my toes. My stomach growls loud enough that I’m sure Eva hears it. “Uh, thanks. Are we done for the day?”
She laughs. “No, I want to introduce you to some high rollers. But go ahead and take a break. It sounds like you need one. Eat and get changed into something more comfortable, then meet me in my office.”
I open my mouth to say okay, but the word never leaves my lips. My breath hitches when the buzz of Seven’s luck skates across the back of my neck, over my shoulder, and between my breasts. My nipples tighten at the feel of it, and I have to draw a breath to steady myself. The tingle of it causes the tiny hairs on my arms to stand on end, and everything inside me takes on an electrical charge.
Evangeline’s lips quirk into an impish grin. There is no way she can’t sense that. “In my office by four, Sophia,” she singsongs before striding out the door without looking back.
I adjust my dress and smooth my hair, suddenly filled with a different type of hunger. My heels click on the hardwood floors of the new poker room as I push my way through the gold-plated doors and into the foyer of the Dragonfly Casino. My steps falter when I see Seven standing in front of a poster advertising the latest Cirque du Soleil production going on in the theater.
My very own personal Prince Charming.
His back is to me, which means I have a moment to observe him as my inner world goes topsy-turvy with attraction. The soft shine of his toffee-colored hair picks up the gold reflected off the shiny surfaces in the room and contrasts perfectly with his dark suit, specially tailored to make the most of his broad shoulders. His jacket skims down to his hips in a perfect taper, both professional and somehow sensual, as if the material loves to touch him as much as I do. His long legs end in polished Italian-leather loafers.
