The Eligible Manhunt

1. Lady Cinder’s Ball

Lady Cinder's Ball

Cinder

The Grand Ballroom of Eldridge Castle smells like expensive perfume, desperation, and the faint metallic tang of too many noble egos clashing.

I hate every single person in this room.

Crystal chandeliers drip candlelight over a sea of silk gowns and velvet doublets.

The orchestra saws away at something that’s supposed to sound romantic but mostly sounds like a dying cat trying to waltz.

And I, Lady Cinder, twenty-four years old, filthy rich, and rapidly losing the will to live, sit on my temporary throne with one leg crossed over the other and murder in my heart.

Another prince finishes his "courtship" speech.

Prince Theodoric of Vaelor. Third son of some inbred mountain kingdom. Four excruciating minutes of flowery nonsense that ends in him dropping to one knee and presenting me with a single red rose like it was the holy grail.

A rose.

A ROSE.

As if I haven't received four hundred roses this season alone. As if a limp flower is going to make me spread my legs for a man whose jawline suggests his parents are cousins.

I stare at the rose. Then at him.

"Tell me, Your Highness," I say, voice sweet enough to rot teeth, "do you always ejaculate before the lady has time to remove her corset, or is that a special talent reserved for royal balls?"

Theodoric blinks. Somewhere behind me, a courtier chokes on his wine.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me." I lean forward, elbow on my knee, chin in my hand. "Last month, it was Prince Alaric. Came in his trousers the second I let him touch my breast. The month before that, Prince Reginald lasted exactly six pumps and then cried because his mother never hugged him enough."

I let that sink in. Let the whole ballroom hear it. I’m past caring about propriety. Propriety hasn't gotten me a single satisfying orgasm in twenty-four years of existence.

"I’m tired, Theodoric." I stand, letting my black silk dress catch the candlelight. The slit is high enough to be a suggestion. The neckline plunges low enough to be an invitation. I'm dressed for seduction tonight, hoping, foolishly, that someone in this room might actually be worth seducing.

Foolish, foolish Cinder.

"I want a man who can fuck like he means it," I continue, watching Theodoric's face cycle through shock, horror, and what appears to be constipation.

"Who can pin me against a wall and make me forget my own title.

Not another perfumed lapdog who thinks 'passion' is quoting bad poetry while he humps my thigh like a confused terrier. "

I pluck the rose from his trembling fingers and flick it away. It lands in the champagne fountain with a pathetic splash.

Fitting.

Theodoric turns the color of old cheese and scurries off. The crowd pretends not to have heard, but the whispers are already spreading like wildfire.

Did you hear what she said.

Absolutely scandalous.

Poor Prince Theodoric.

Poor Prince Theodoric can choke on his mediocre lineage for all I care.

I sink back onto my throne, down the rest of my wine in one swallow, and signal for another. My lady-in-waiting, Mira, appears at my elbow with a fresh glass and an expression that suggests she is fighting very hard not to laugh.

"At this rate," I say, low enough that only she can hear, "I'll die a virgin to anything that isn't battery-operated."

Mira's lips twitch. "My lady."

"I'm serious. If the next man who approaches me doesn't look like he could ruin me for polite society, I'm calling the whole thing off." I take a long drink. "Becoming a nun. A very angry nun. I'll terrorize a convent somewhere and spend my remaining years in celibate fury."

"That does sound relaxing," Mira offers.

"It sounds miserable. But at least I'd stop being disappointed."

I scan the room again, searching for something, someone, who doesn’t reek of pedigree and premature disappointment.

More princes. More barons. More third sons and second cousins and men whose greatest accomplishment is being born with a title and a trust fund. They cluster in their little groups, peacocking for my attention, completely unaware that I'd rather set myself on fire than let any of them touch me.

Is this it? Is this my future? An endless parade of soft-handed aristocrats who couldn't find a clitoris with a map and a guide?

I’m twenty-four years old. I’m beautiful. I’m wealthy. I’m powerful.

And I have never, not once, been properly fucked.

The injustice of it burns in my chest.

"My lady?" Mira's voice cuts through my spiral. "Are you alright?"

"Fine," I say, draining my wine. "Just... fine."

No. I am not fine. I’m frustrated and furious and so desperately horny that I've started having dreams about the gardener, who is sixty-three and missing most of his teeth.

But I can’t say that.