Poison Princess

I parted my lips to say something to Jackson—anything to get him to stay—but he just gave me that curt chin jerk, then followed Selena to their wing of the mansion.

So much for his insistence that we always sleep in the same place.

Once they’d gone, the voices buzzed anew. I fought to dampen them, telling myself that nothing could ruin my first real shower since the Flash.

Wrong.

Under the hot water, my cheeks stung where Jackson’s stubble had abraded my skin, reminding me of how much my night was shittily declining.

Surely he couldn’t transfer his interest from one girl to another just like that. We’d had something between us, right? So says the girl with such little boy experience.

After I’d showered and dried my hair, I slipped on a dark jean miniskirt—that nearly hit my knees but was tight over my ass—and a body-conscious red tank. I decided to go barefoot. None of Selena’s shoes had fit, and I refused to pull on my wet boots. Besides, it was a cookout by the pool.

I assessed myself in the mirror, my mood lifting. Not bad, Greene. My eyes looked bright, my hair clean and shiny. The tank molded over my chest, which Jackson would surely appreciate.

This wasn’t over. One last glance, then I set off downstairs.

Out on the lanai, Selena and Jackson were drinking beer and grilling the quail—while discussing bowstring tensions.

Instead of announcing myself, I decided to observe them from the shadows, doing recon on Selena.

My mood soured once more when I saw her man-eater outfit: a slinky, off-the-shoulder couture blouse, a micromini, and four-inch heels. Her eyes danced as she gazed at Jackson.

With his face clean-shaven and his new clothes—a black hunter’s T-shirt, broken-in jeans, and boots—he looked even more gorgeous than usual.

She laughed at something he said, grazing her fingers over the scar on his forearm, having no idea what that mark meant to him—to me. . . .

Another joke, another laugh, another round of beers popped open.

Another brush of her fingers. She seemed to be taking every opportunity to touch him.

He was letting her. Just an hour ago, he’d been trying to sleep with me. Now here he was getting drunk with this strange girl in the moonlight.

The Bringer of Doubt? Oh, she’d brought it.

Evidently he didn’t figure her for a miserable tease. And she was lapping up the attention. Why wouldn’t she? Jackson was handsome, strong, an incredible protector.

Not that Lara Croft needed any help in the protection department. Her longbow was propped up right next to Jackson’s crossbow, both within easy reach.

How quaint.

She didn’t even know how wicked a kisser he was.

Jackson seemed to be hanging on her every word as their conversation moved on to motorcycle engine horsepower and tire treads.

Tire. Treads.

How could Selena know all that stuff? It was like they spoke a foreign language that I could never learn.

My heart sank when she drank out of his beer, then gave the bottle back, as if they were a couple.

Back at Haven, I’d wiped his flask with my sleeve.

His attraction to me truly had been just about slim pickings. He’d liked me out of nécessité. As he’d readily admitted. But give him a choice . . .

He would never want to leave this realm of beer and electricity and leggy archers.

And I needed him to get to Gran’s. Only to get there. For no other reason. At all.

Maybe I shouldn’t roll over and let her have him so easily. I recalled how possessive I’d been about Brandon. I thought of what Mel would say: “Stop being a puss and take your toy back. What are you—minced meat?”

Selena asked him, “Will you say back there again?”

He complied. With his accent, it sounded like a rumbly bag dare.

“Cajun is sooo hawt, J.D.”

J.D.? Okay, that was the final straw!

I strolled out onto the lanai, fake smile in place. “Dinner smells delicious.”

Jackson’s gaze moved over me. I thought I detected approval in his expression, but then he looked away as if he could barely stand the sight of me.

“Just in time, Evie,” Selena said. “I’ve got everything ready.”

I surveyed the outdoor table, immaculately set with nice silver and crisp napkins. Covered dishes steamed with mouthwatering aromas.

“We’re having quail, asparagus, and mushroom risotto. Hot apple cobbler for dessert.”

I smiled thinly. Martha Stewart called, wants her shtick back. “Can I help?”

Jackson snorted. And Selena play-slapped his chest, like he was her mischievous boyfriend.

At that, the initial mrowr pfft pfft I’d felt transformed into I will cut a bitch.

No, no, no. I had to think about this rationally! She might help me discover more about the Arcana.

But then, Jackson’s assistance was critical to my getting to Gran’s, to finding out all, and I was losing him.

Ever polite, Selena opened a sweating beer bottle for me. “Here you go.”

The last thing I needed was to lose control, but I politely took a sip. “Cheers.”

“You guys take a seat. J.D., you’re over here.” She pointed out the chair right beside hers, which put me on the other side of the large table alone.

When they dug in, Jackson groaned at his first bite. And she can cook, too.

My mouth should have been watering, but I was too nervous. I kept imagining how dangerous—and lonely— the road was going to be without him.

That was the only reason I felt like crying. Not because he’d told me he was going to take care of me, making it sound like a promise.

“Aren’t you hungry?” Selena asked me.

“Doan worry about her.” Jackson spooned more risotto onto his plate. “Plus pour nous.” More for us.

Seemed he was no longer concerned about this growing girl’s ultimate bra size. Because he’d shut those thoughts down. . . .

Over dinner, I learned of all the things that J.D. and Lara Croft had in common. I thought about proposing a new drinking game: Take a swig every time Selena said to Jackson, “No way! Me too!”

They loved to hunt and fish. Both had been shooting a bow since they were little. Selena modestly admitted that she’d been training for Olympic archery before the Flash struck.

Jackson looked far more impressed with that than he had with my dance trophies.

She and Jackson were both soon to be nineteen. Once she’d realized I was more than two years younger, Selena had started talking to me in a patronizing tone, like I was their plucky, annoying tagalong. “Oh, no, J.D., I gave her a beer!” she’d cried, jabbing him with an elbow. “Should we take it away?”

I hadn’t wanted my beer. Now I dared her to reach for it.

Wonder of wonders, Selena was also an ace motocross rider, had even raced against the boys.

In fact, she gleefully told Jackson, “I rode so much each weekend that my family got me my own industrial- size tank of gasoline. It’s still half-full. Hey, we could go off-roading tomorrow, if the weather holds. You won’t believe the trails I could take you on, J.D.”

It was as if Selena had been factory-made for him. Any hope I’d had of keeping his attention was doused.