Tangled in Moonlight: Unshifted novel Chapter 455

Chapter 455: Lisa: Reformed Bratitude (I)

LISA

The Fae girl is a captive. A possible danger to the pack. Someone Lucas, the great Alpha, is wary of.

But... is this how captives are treated?

The young Fae girl lounges on a nest of blankets, arms straight above her as she reads from romance novel. Not a hard guess on the contents, considering the half-naked man on the cover. Dirty bowls are scattered around her head like some bizarre halo.

Whatever Chapter she’s on must be particularly steamy, based on her wide eyes and the slight flush on her cheeks.

I’d kill for a good book right now. Something to distract me from the constant fear, from the throbbing in my thigh. From the nightmares. But no—we don’t waste precious supply runs on entertainment. Medicine, weapons, food—those are the priorities in Wolf’s Landing. Not escapist literature.

No idea how she’s procured the book, but I need to know.

Magister Orion sighs heavily from over my shoulder. "I know how it looks. But the Fae cannot deny her comfort, considering her status in their society."

I turn to face him, crossing my arms. "If she’s so important, why don’t you just hand her back to Lucas, then?"

Ava’s teacher rubs the back of his neck with a soft laugh. He gestures toward a chair beside Pip’s makeshift bed.

"Perhaps you should sit down, Ms. Randall."

I reluctantly lower myself into the chair, never taking my eyes off him. On the floor, the Fae girl ignores us completely, turning a page in her book.

"This doesn’t look like imprisonment to me. This looks like..."

"Protective custody," Magister Orion finishes for me. He settles into a chair opposite mine, his massive frame making the furniture look child-sized. "Yes. Pellonia is not precisely a prisoner, though your Alpha is quite suspicious of the girl."

"Pellonia?" I glance down at the purple-haired girl, who’s still ignoring us. Cute.

"Her proper name. Pip is a... nickname she’s adopted during her little rebellion."

I study her more carefully now. The chains on her clothing, the deliberately messy purple hair. Definitely a teenager trying on a personality.

"She’s a princess, right?"

"Correct. The daughter of the Crown Prince."

I cross my legs, shifting my weight in the chair as I decide Magister Orion isn’t the one who needs my attention. The girl—Pellonia—is the more interesting puzzle here. I pin her with my stare, not bothering to hide my assessment.

"So, Princess Pellonia. Why is a spoiled royal playing rebel? Seems like an awfully big risk when you could be sipping whatever passes for champagne in fairy land."

Magister Orion opens his mouth, but I snap my fingers at him without breaking my concentration on the Fae princess in question. "Not asking you. She’s got a mouth. She can use it."

The trick with a brat is to get them angry. They specialize in defending their actions, declaring no one understands them, and throwing a fit until they get their way.

I should know—I am one.

Well, reformed.

Mostly.

The sudden click of my fingers in the quiet room has the intended effect. The giant man closes his mouth, his exhale almost imperceptible. Smart man. I can practically feel him judging me, but he takes the hint.

Gotta fake my authority. Brats hate authority. And if she’s the Crown Prince’s daughter... well, we don’t have royalty like the Fae do. But I bet she’s got an arrogant streak a mile wide beneath all her rebellious attitude.

There’s no way she’s going to let a mere human nag at her.

Silence fills the space between us. The only sounds are the distant voices of people outside and the occasional rustle as Pip turns another page in her book. She’s pretending I don’t exist, which only makes me more determined.

One minute stretches into two. Three. The Magister sits perfectly still, apparently content to let this play out.

I count four full minutes before Pellonia’s grip on her book tightens slightly. Her page-turning slows, then stops altogether. Slowly, the book lowers just enough for her eyes to peer over the top.

Those eyes. They’re hard, calculating, deeply distrustful. Not a kid’s eyes at all. They remind me of my own when I look in the mirror these days.

"You’re human," she finally says, her voice flat. Not a question.

"Last I checked."

"Then you wouldn’t understand."

Nailed it.

I bark out a laugh. "Try me, Your Highness. I’ve got nothing but time and an aching leg. Entertain me."

She lowers the book a little more, revealing the tight line of her mouth. "It’s not entertainment."

"No? Then what is it? Teenage rebellion? Daddy issues?"

She sits up abruptly, the book tumbling into her lap. "You think I’m doing this to upset my father?"

"Aren’t you?" I tilt my head, studying her chains and purple hair with exaggerated interest. "Please. Your whole aesthetic screams ’notice me, Daddy.’"

"I’m a messenger. A connector. Someone who can move between groups without raising suspicion." Her chin lifts slightly. "I can help. I have helped."

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