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Again.

“Ugh!”

He walks away laughing.

“I hate you, Wulfredo!”

“Nobody calls me that except Grimm!” he calls back.

My heart gives one painful little thump.

Grimm.

Asshole.

Sexy, mysterious, disappearing asshole.

I touch the bite beneath my blouse.

Still there.

Full moon, huh?

Why does that feel important?

I shake my head.

Nope.

I am not spending another night obsessing over Grimm Palermo.

I have a Festival to plan.

A Masquerade to chaperone.

And apparently a costume to find.

I gather my things and head for the door.

Now the real question is...

What the hell am I going to wear?

Chapter Eighteen

So, just to be clear, I'm more of a 1950s retro-chic kinda chick when it comes to fashion.

Give me a fit-and-flare dress, a cute cardigan, red lipstick, and shoes that don't require an advanced degree in balancing, and I'm happy.

But I have to say...

The medieval fantasy princess gown I'm wearing tonight?

Holy Goddess.

I look fucking amazing. There's really no other way to put it.

The gown is, of course, made with magic.