Tracy Wolff

“It’s a lot.” I eye the gorgeous stained glass windows that run along the exterior wall and the elaborate carved molding that decorates the arched ceiling.

“It is.” She slows down until I catch up. “But it’s home.”

“Your home,” I whisper, doing my best not to think of the house I left behind, where my mother’s front porch wind chimes and whirligigs were the most wild-and-crazy thing about it.

“Our home,” she answers as she pulls out her phone and sends a quick text.

“‘There are more things in heaven and hell, Horatio, / Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’”

“Earth,” I correct before I can think better of it.

He crooks one midnight-black brow in question, so I continue. “The quote is, ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio.’”

“Is it now?” His face doesn’t change, but there’s something mocking in his tone that wasn’t there before, like I’m the one who made the mistake, not him. But I know I’m right—my AP English class just finished reading Hamlet last month, and my teacher spent forever on that quote. “I think I like my version better.”

“Even though it’s wrong?”

“Especially because it’s wrong.”

Still, you’re totally my favorite cousin.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m your only cousin.”

“Doesn’t mean you aren’t also my favorite.”

“My dad uses that line.”

“That you’re his favorite cousin?” I tease.

“You know what I mean.” She sighs in obvious exasperation. “You’re a dork; you know that, right?”

He half turns, holds out a hand to me.

I shouldn’t take it. Every ounce of self-defense training I’ve ever had says I should run. That I should take the reprieve he—Jaxon—is offering and make a mad dash for my room.

Douchey the first time, blank the second, intense the third, and furious the fourth. His moods change more quickly than my BFF’s Insta feed.

a sticker that reads, “I’m not a damsel in distress; I’m a dragon in a dress.”

“Trust me,” Flint implores. “I’ll take good care of you.”

“Don’t trust him,” Macy tells me. “Put a snowball in that boy’s hand and he’s utterly diabolical.

“Hi, Grace! Come join us.”

Ummm, no thanks. Not in a million years. Not when every instinct I have is screaming at me to flee, even though I don’t know why.

“No. I don’t answer to you.”

He laughs. He actually laughs, and it’s the most arrogant thing I’ve ever heard.

“Everyone answers to me…eventually.”

Oh. My. God. What an asshat.

“I’m only saying,” he continues when I don’t respond, “making friends with a dra—” He breaks off, clears his throat before trying again. “Making friends with a guy like Flint is…”

“What?” I turn on him, frustration racing through me. “Being friends with Flint is what exactly?”

“Like painting a target on your back,” he answers, looking a little taken aback by my anger. “It’s pretty much the opposite of keeping a low profile.”

“Oh, really? So what exactly is hanging out with you, then?”

His face goes blank, and I don’t think he’s going to answer. But eventually, he says, “Utter and complete stupidity.”

Not the answer I was expecting, especially from someone as arrogant and annoying as he can be. The blunt honesty of it slips past my defenses, though. Has me answering when I didn’t think there was anything else to say. “Yet here you are.”

“Yeah.” His dark, bemused eyes search my face. “Here I am.”