Vacation Hell:Princess of Hell #4

By: Eve Langlais

Description





Some people collect seashells at the beach. Muriel picks up another man. A merman…





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Juggling a happily ever after is harder than it looks, especially when it involves a fallen angel who is my soul mate, a hunky cat shifter who stole my heart, and a darkly delicious vampire who is like that piece of forbidden chocolate you just can’t resist.

Add in a precocious little girl, who is totally spoiled rotten—not surprising given Nana and Poppa were Mother Nature and the Devil—and my life was a never-ending series of dramas, foot stomping, yelling, and tears. By me.

I never knew being a grownup could be so much damned work, which is why I decided we needed a vacation. But of course, as Lucifer’s daughter, that didn’t turn out as expected. Now I’ve got to figure out if my bathtub is big enough for a hunky merman—and is there room in my heart for one more?



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The Princess of Hell series consists of:





For more Hell books please visit at EveLanglais.com





Chapter One





Blinking didn’t erase the horror. The permanent marker squiggle went from the front door, along the hallway wall in a determined straight line, rounded over the console table that held the bowl for our keys, down a doorjamb, across the white tile floor then back up the wall. This impressively long piece of art ran the whole length of the corridor on the main floor and right into the living room, where I found the culprit lying on the once pristine white shag rug, once being the key word. Now, my beautiful fluffy treat, which I’d paid an exorbitant sum for, sported hand-drawn zebra stripes. Sob.

In an age-old posture adopted by many a parent, I planted my hands on my hips and, in my sternest voice, said, “What did you do?” In the pit, imps would have trembled, the damned would have thrown themselves prostrate on the floor. Not my daughter, though.

The biggest eyes, graced with thick lashes, set in a face highlighted by chubby cheeks and framed by golden hair pinned in pigtails peeked at me. “Hi, Mommy. Do you like my drawing?”

Must. Resist. The cuteness.

I held firm. No wavering. “Baby girl, you cannot write on the walls.”

“Why?”

A word I truly had begun to hate. “Because I just had them painted.”

“But they’re boring. I made them pretty.” She blinked her ridiculously thick and natural eyelashes at me to no avail. I had been raised in the pit. Her guileless expression did not fool me.

“The walls are supposed to be boring, and marker free.” After the chaos of Hell, and even everyday life, I enjoyed a home with a simple color palette. Lots of whites and grays, as well as soft blues. No reds or browns or that weird in-between umber here.

“Can I draw on the ceiling then? Poppa’s palace has pictures on his.”

Poppa’s palace had many things etched into his ceiling, some of them quite inappropriate for little girls’ eyes—and even adult ones, too.

“No.” I didn’t ask or leave any wiggle room. As boss in this relationship, I called the shots.

“Why?”

Argh, there was that damned word again. Time to foil her with logic. “Because you’re supposed to write on paper.”

“But Poppa says only fools and goody-two-shoes do what they’re supposed to. The”—she wrinkled her snub nose adorably—“intrepid forge their own rules.” She beamed, and I saw the slyness in her expression.

I blinked. How could I argue when I’d been raised on the same rule? That was what happened when you had the devil for your daughter’s grandfather. He filled her head with the same nonsense as he’d filled mine. And I turned out great, but still, even as a child, I learned that parents must be obeyed—or I lost special privileges like chocolate pudding for dessert and I got medical journals for my birthday instead of pretty shiny things.

Lucinda, the ruby-red apple of my eye, had not yet grasped the knowledge that I was in charge. Never mind the fact I still didn’t listen to my father. I would do better than him. I would set rules and boundaries and expect them to be obeyed.

“I will not have you turn our home into a graffiti studio. No more drawing on anything but paper. Is that understood?” I threw in a proper mommy glare for good measure.

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