THE WICKED WOLF
I hated Vasilisa Rhys when I first met her.
She was the daughter of one of my father’s pompous advisers, and she was there by mistake.
Her father never planned to bring her to the fortress. Rhys’ never leave their golden lands until they are ready to be presented to society. That has always been part of their glamour. No one knew about them, but everyone knew they were perfect.
But the King personally asked for her and the rest was history.
She was this spoiled, perfect little brat that never giggled, never smiled and was far too confident for a person the size of a pint. The little devil carried herself like she was six feet tall. She had her chin up the entire time, her nose in the air, her eyes sharp and cunning and ready to eat me alive despite how small she was
