The store has gone still. There’s a metallic zing to the atmosphere, similar to the feel of post-rain ozone on my skin.
I slowly lower my arms and look up. The books hang in the air, suspended. Even the ones shooting from the shop have stopped, levitating as if they’re frozen in time.
My gaze darts over to my parents. Is one of them doing this? Did our magic somehow get fixed?
But my parents are both looking up, too, their expressions laced with as much confusion as mine.
Books encase my legs, so after some difficulty lifting one leg, then the other, stumbling onto the books surrounding me on all sides, I finally turn around and see what’s stopped the books.
Not a what.
A whom.
Eryx, the Nightmare King, stands behind me dressed in a black suit lined with silver thread.
My stomach drops. Him. This man. This man who invaded my magic, who pushes and pulls, smirks.
He smirks.
I clench my fists, and with as much grace as a monkey trying to ice skate, I climb over the pile of books and stumble toward him.
“You! How dare you tell people we’re engaged! What right do you have?”
He glances at the hand holding up the books, then back at me. “Would you like me to let go?”
I grind out, “No.”
His expression shifts—just for a moment. Something that might be regret. "You're right. I should have asked first. But I'm asking now. You and I should talk.”
“About what?”
His eyes twinkle with way too much delight. “About why you should say yes.”
Chelsea
Eryx fixes the books. All the books. Every single one.
I watch him do it. His magic wraps around each tome like invisible hands, guiding them back through windows and doors—not forcing. Coaxing them. Like he understands the bookstore's pain.
It takes him less than five minutes to do what we couldn't have done in an hour.
After that, my parents invite him over to the house—for breakfast—like it’s an everyday event to have the Nightmare King show up for pancakes.
Get this—he eats every last one my mom puts on his plate.
And my sisters—Emory, Dallas, Finn, and Georgia—don’t say much, but they watch him quietly, their eyes big with questions.
And as for me, I barely touch my pancakes. I sit with my shoulders tightly rounded, my eyes on my plate.
“That manor of yours,” Dad says, “how many square feet is it?”
What a dad question. But Eryx doesn’t miss a beat. He puts down his fork and replies, “One hundred thousand.”
“You don’t say. And does it heat well? Stay cool in the summer?”
“For the most part. Every home has thatoneroom, doesn’t it?”
Dad chuckles. “It sure does.”
