Page 89 of Hateful Prince
Tor: How? You shouldn’t be able to speak of...
Dr. Masterson: The fights? The staff at Blackwood aren’t beholden to the same muzzling spells as those who deal in the fight ring. The Council requires us to have all information available at all times. Consider it an extension of doctor-patient privilege. How else can I best help you if I don’t have all the facts?
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Dr. Masterson: Do you think you’ll be able to control your rage at the gala if Bentley chooses to retaliate?
Tor: It’s hard to say. I don’t have a problem with him, but if he threatens me or my mate, I will have no choice but to protect her.
Dr. Masterson: I was worried you might say that. But I can’t say I expected anything different. *resigned sigh* All right, well, we will play it by ear, I guess. I’ll tell Bru to stay close for the entirety of their visit. I expect you to be on your best behavior, Tor. I mean it. Unless it is clear that you are provoked and acting only in defense of yourself or your mate, you will end up back in No Man’s Land. And this time, I’m not sure even Dahlia will be enough to get you out.
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End of transcript
Chapter
Twenty-Eight
DAHLIA
What was it about therapy sessions that made me so hungry? Maybe it was the fact that I hadn’t eaten since last night, and I’d been very active between the sheets with Hades more than once before we finally fell asleep. Tor hadn’t given me much of a chance to do anything before he’d shown up starkers and running from the doll.
And by the time Hades and I—do you have any idea how weird it is to say that unironically?—got finished ditching the doll in the loch, I barely made it to my appointment with Masterson. So maybe it was therapy that made me hungry as much as, you know, not eating.
Go figure.
At least I’d had time to put real clothes on. Something told me Masterson wouldn’t have appreciated seeing me in nothing but Hades’s rumpled shirt.
Or maybe she would. I did have some epic curves. Who didn’t appreciate a bodacious bod?
My stomach gave a grumble as I approached the lunch buffet. I had to admit, the offerings were impressive and inclusive. Vegan, gluten-free, veggie, and kosher options were readily available alongside stuff for us carnivores and the—gulp—blood bar. But we didn’t talk about the blood bar.
I loaded up my plate with a mountain of mashed potatoes (without garlic, because fuck garlic. It made my tummy hurt), mac and cheese, a couple pieces of fried chicken, and exactly two pieces of broccoli. Did I plan to stick them into Mount Mash so they looked like trees? Yes, yes, I did. And if they had offered dino nugs, I would’ve strategically placed them around the mountain and recreated the volcano scene from that one Jurassic Park movie. If you’re not playing with your food, you’re not living, friends.
“So, which one of your menagerie of men gets the privilege of being on your arm at the gala?” Sorcha asked as she filled a wine goblet with blood.
I had to chew and swallow the bite of mac and cheese I’d gobbled because I literally couldn’t wait to sit down to start eating. “What gala?”
She gave me one of those long, ‘How are you still alive? You’re too stupid to live’ stares. “The fundraiser? In like two days? The one they’ve been decorating for all week?”
My cheeks went warm, and I knew it the moment my flush registered because the vampire’s pupils dilated. Shudder. “I’ve been busy.”
“Busy getting railed,” she muttered under her breath, but not so quiet I hadn’t heard. “By the way, how’d your last cycle go? It was only, what, four days this time?” The smirk on her lips told me everything I needed to know. She’d been toying with me after witnessing my crisis in the corridor.
“Yeah, about that. You could’ve saved me a lot of stress if you’d just put me out of my misery.”
“Where’s the fun in that? I’m a Blackthorne, darling. Causing misery is what I live for. Besides, we don’t get much other entertainment here.”
“I’m so glad I could be of assistance,” I said drily.
“Me too.”
One of us was being sarcastic. The other was Sorcha Blackthorne.
“There’s really a gala?”
“Oh yes,” she said with a nod as she took a sip of her cocktail. The only way I could stand here and watch her drink the tomato-red liquid was to tell myself it was a cocktail.