Page 129 of The Wolf Prince

Again.

“Ugh!”

He walks away laughing.

“I hate you, Wulfredo!”

“Nobody calls me that except Grimm!” he calls back.

My heart gives one painful little thump.

Grimm.

Asshole.

Sexy, mysterious, disappearing asshole.

I touch the bite beneath my blouse.

Still there.

Full moon, huh?

Why does that feel important?

I shake my head.

Nope.

I am not spending another night obsessing over Grimm Palermo.

I have a Festival to plan.

A Masquerade to chaperone.

And apparently a costume to find.

I gather my things and head for the door.

Now the real question is...

What the hell am I going to wear?

Chapter Eighteen

So, just to be clear, I'm more of a 1950s retro-chic kinda chick when it comes to fashion.

Give me a fit-and-flare dress, a cute cardigan, red lipstick, and shoes that don't require an advanced degree in balancing, and I'm happy.

But I have to say...

The medieval fantasy princess gown I'm wearing tonight?

Holy Goddess.

I look fucking amazing. There's really no other way to put it.

The gown is, of course, made with magic.