Chapter 102: Mirror Match

For a second, I thought I’d imagined it. You know that surreal moment when your brain refuses to accept that someone had just spoken in your general direction?

Yeah, that. My mind tried to file the insult somewhere under “dream sequence” or “auditory hallucination caused by too much stress and not enough carbs,” but when I opened my eyes, reality greeted me like a slap to the ass.

There she was—the mouth behind the venom.

She couldn’t have been older than me, maybe younger by a month or two, though she carried herself like she’d invented cruelty and charged royalties for its use.

Her outfit was a gothic mirror of my own sins—black camisole, short skirt, lace stockings, and dainty shoes that looked custom made for stomping egos.

Her skin was pale enough to make marble jealous, her chest nearly flat, and her hair—Saints preserve me—two twin tails curled like they were sculpted by a sugar-addled artist hell-bent on making me question the concept of individuality.

Emerald green eyes sparkled with mischief and malice in equal measure, and when she smiled—oh, it wasn’t a smile so much as a declaration of war written in lipstick.

She had pointed ears as well—another elf, because of course she was.

A tiny, silver collar gleamed against her throat as she tilted her head, sizing me up with the kind of glee one usually reserves for impending car crashes.

She leaned forward, voice rich with mockery. “Oh my, look at what we have here. A limp-dicked pretty boy who couldn’t find his own cock with a map and a lantern? Saints, they actually let you up here looking like a used cum-rag?”

For a heartbeat, I nearly lost it. Not in anger—no, not yet. Instead I laughed. A real, bright, undignified laugh that tore out of me before I could stop it. It startled her, just a flicker in her eyes. “Oh, Saints above,” I said between wheezes, “they’ve started cloning me. The world isn’t ready for this level of beauty and bad decisions.”

Her smirk sharpened. “Cloning? Cute. More like they scraped you off the bottom of a glory-hole and called it a prototype. The kind you flush twice and still smell the failure.”

I had to admit, that one stung a little. I blinked at her, still grinning, because admitting she’d landed a hit would’ve been sacrilege. “Failure? Sweetheart, I’m vintage. You wouldn’t know quality if it teabagged your tonsils.”

“Vintage?” she sneered. “Mhm, you look more like expired jizz to me.”

Saints, she was good.

I decided not to indulge her any further. Instead I sat up from the couch, stretching once before turning on my heel and brushing past her—making sure my shoulder hit hers on the way.

The contact was deliberate, satisfying. I didn’t even look back as I strolled toward Brutus, who was half-slumped against one of the room’s massive pillars, drinking what looked to be that same glowing sludge Atticus had given me before.

“You holding up, big guy?” I said as I approached.

Brutus was just beginning to answer—something about the taste of Atticus’s concoction being like fermented regret—when the sharp staccato of footsteps echoed across the marble floor.

I didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. The temperature in the room dropped by a degree then, the air tightening with the kind of tension that only teenage arrogance and expensive perfume can produce.

Before I could blink, a hand grabbed my shoulder and spun me around.

It was her again.

This time, she wasn’t smirking. Her fingers clenched in my collar, yanking me closer until I could count the flecks of emerald in her irises. Her breath smelled of mint and murder.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” I asked sweetly, batting my lashes. “Did I bruise your ego when I brushed by, or is this your way of asking for a dance?”

Her voice dropped, low and venomous. “You’ve got a big mouth for a limp-pricked fag who’d cry if his eyeliner smudged.”

“Depends,” I said. “Is that an offer? Because I charge for that sort of service.”

The smile returned, slow and cruel. “You’re disgusting.”

“True,” I shrugged. “But I wear it like cologne.”

That earned me a shove. Not a hard one, but enough to make my pulse spike with something hot and electric. “Tell me something, pretty boy,” she said. “Do you dress like this because you want attention, or because you’re too much of a pussy to pick a hole?”

For a moment—just a moment—the humor faltered. Not outwardly; I was still smirking, but I felt it, that tiny needle slipping under the skin. Her words slithered through me with surgical precision, finding the places I didn’t talk about, the ones I joked around to keep from touching.

I laughed anyway, because that’s what I do. “Holes are for amateurs, darling. I prefer corners. You can get fucked from every angle and still see the knife coming.”

She tilted her head, eyes sparkling with mock sympathy. “So that’s it, huh? A confused little cock-tease strutting in stolen skirts because he can’t decide if he wants to suck it or ride it. Fucking pathetic.” And there it was again—that sting, sharper now, threading through my ribs. I hated that she could see it. “Oh, what’s wrong?” She continued. “Did I hit a nerve? What, you gonna cry?”

I opened my mouth to retort, but she beat me to it—with laughter.

Saints above, that laugh. It wasn’t joy. It wasn’t humor. It was the shrill, pompous cackle of someone who’d just discovered they could set fire to butterflies and thought it art. It filled the hall, echoing off marble, slicing through the background noise until it was the only sound that existed.

I felt something twitch in me—just behind the eyes.

Brutus must’ve seen it, because suddenly he was between us, his massive frame cutting the light. He looked down at her with that quiet, dangerous calm that made lesser men reconsider their life choices.

“Step back,” he said with a grunt.

She blinked up at him, her smirk curling back into play. “Oh? The meat-shield speaks. How adorable.” Her gaze swept over him—broad shoulders, scarred arms, a mountain in motion. “Tell me, do you grunt like that when you’re balls-deep in his ass, or are you too busy wiping this cum-rag’s tears?

Brutus’s jaw tightened, the veins in his neck standing out like steel cables. “Not your concern.”

She giggled, a light, cruel sound. “Oh, but it is. Look at you—so stoic, so tragic. I practically live for this sort of thing.”

The room was shifting now—voices lowering, footsteps pausing. A small crowd was gathering, drawn to the scent of blood in the water.

“You mouthy little shit. Shut up or I’ll—” he started, voice thick with contempt, but she cut him off with a laugh sharp enough to slice diamonds.

“You’ll what? Rape me?” She licked her lips like she was savoring the word, eyes rolling in mock ecstasy. “Big surprise…another cock-swinging brute who thinks the only way to shut a woman up is to shove his sad little prick in her face until she chokes on it. Typical. Men are all the same, loud, limp, and convinced their dicks are magic wands that turn opinions into obedience.”

My heart thudded once, hard.

The laughter around us was faint but growing, a low ripple like distant thunder. I could feel it, the tension threading through my fingers, the heat coiling up my spine. She wanted a reaction, and Saints help me, I was ready to give her one.

My hands curled into fists.

She saw it, of course. That little flicker in my eyes. She grinned, shifting her stance subtly, weight sliding to her back foot. “My my, look at that,” she said, voice dripping with false innocence. “The doll thinks he’s dangerous.”

Brutus muttered something under his breath, probably a warning, but the blood was already rushing in my ears. The world had narrowed to her smirk, her laugh, that glint in her collar catching the golden light.

I moved.

Or at least, I tried to.

Before my foot even hit the marble, a hand shot out and caught my wrist in a grip like tempered steel.

I froze, head snapping sideways. Iskanda stood there, her expression a masterclass in exasperated poise. One eyebrow arched high enough to scrape the heavens, her other hand resting lightly on her hip.

“Do tell me you weren’t about to make me fill out another report,” she said, voice calm but laced with something dangerous.

Across from us, the girl had been intercepted too. Quentin’s hand rested on her shoulder, fingers firm, posture casual in that unnervingly elegant way of his. His tone was soft but carried weight. “Elvina,” he said. “Breathe.”

She gave him a pout so artificial it could’ve been painted on porcelain. “But he—”

“I said breathe.”

Elvina’s lips twisted, caught somewhere between annoyance and reluctant obedience. She inhaled dramatically, like the air itself had personally offended her, then exhaled with a huff that would’ve made any dragon proud.

“There,” she said sweetly. “See? I’m calm.”

Quentin smiled without humor. “Marvelous. Now try staying that way.”

Iskanda’s grip loosened slightly on my wrist, though her gaze didn’t soften. “And you,” she murmured, “should learn when someone isn’t worth your breath.”

I swallowed whatever witty retort was clawing its way up my throat and forced a grin. “What can I say? I have a weakness for attention.”

She sighed through her nose, that delicate kind of disappointment only professionals and mothers can perfect. “Apparently.”

The room was still watching us, the silence thick with unspoken bets and whispered commentary. The golden chamber had turned into a stage, and for once, I wasn’t sure if I wanted the spotlight.

I glanced back at Elvina who blew me a kiss. That grin of hers—sharp and delighted—was the last thing I saw before Quentin’s fingers tightened just enough to make her wince.

“Enough,” he said softly.

I stood there, chest heaving, tasting blood where I’d bitten my tongue. Gods, I hated her.

…And the worst part? She knew it.

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