Текст книги "The wolf and the crown of blood"

Автор книги: Elizabeth May

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 33 страниц)

She explodes.

With a snarl, she slams her palms into my chest with enough force to knock the breath from my lungs. I rock back on my heels, a savage pride unfurling in me.

Finally.

“Oh, come on. I know you can do better than that,” I hiss. “Tear into me.”

She shoves me harder. “Stop it!”

“Why? This is the most honest you’ve been in weeks.” I grab the dagger from my hip and force it into her hand. “Here. You want to hurt me? Do it properly. Make it count. Carve into me so deep I feel it for days.”

Like that night in your rooms when you cut into me so deeply, I can still remember the ache.

Her anger feeds a darkness in me that’s been starving for weeks. For years. It keeps building—this storm inside my skull, fire crackling under my skin and through my veins.

I want her teeth.

She hurls the knife away, and it skitters into the shadows. “Stop it,” she says again, and there’s something ragged in her voice, too close to concern for my liking. “Just. Stop.”

“Why should I?” I grip her thighs and hoist her up, slamming her back into the door. She twists to break free, but I press my hips forward, pinning her in place. “Aren’t I giving you what you expect? The monster? The villain? Well, here I am, Devaliant. The same bastard you met in Hellevig.” I trail my lips along her jaw, not quite touching. “You loved it that night in your room, didn’t you, vicious girl? Cutting into me. Making me bleed. I bet it’s the only time in your pathetic life you’ve ever felt powerful. Because Alexios bled you dry, and used you up again and again and again—”

She thrashes against me like an animal caught in a snare, feral and snarling and incandescent in her fury. And she’s so stunning, so beautiful, I can hardly breathe through it.

“There was this woman tonight,” I lie, the words spilling out before I can stop them. Anything to keep this fire burning. Anything to make her hurt me. “Reminded me of you, actually. Similar face, same entitled way of breathing.” I lean forward and brush my lips against her ear. “When I was killing her, I thought about you. I imagined it was your throat under my hands. Your voice begging me to end you. Will you beg me, Devaliant? Will you plead?”

Look at me, I demand silently. Don’t you dare flinch. Not now. Hurt me. Please, please, please fucking hurt me.

And she does. Her nails score the flesh of my shoulder, leaving marks as she struggles against my hold. “Fuck you,” she growls. “You disgust me. I hate you.”

A snarl shudders out of me. “Good. Hate me more. Hate me while you’re hurting me. Hate me every moment. Make it the only thing I feel.”

Images strobe through my mind in flashes—wings and sightless eyes, gore and death. All those lives lost. The stench of pyres and the rubble and the grief so crushing that there’s nowhere to send it but out.

I can’t breathe. She’s what’s keeping me together. The only person in two realms who can destroy me the way I want. She’s jagged glass ready to cut me open until I spill out all this rot.

Her eyes snap to mine, and realization skitters across her features. There’s a gradual softening in her face—a terrible, dawning understanding.

And I’m pinned. Caught. Unable to move.

Don’t say it. Don’t you fucking say it.

Her hand curves around my nape, the touch tender. “Something went wrong tonight. You’re in pain. I can see it.” When I do nothing but stare down at her, panting hard, she whispers, “What happened, Evander? Why are you trying so hard to make me hurt you?”

The sound of my real name on her tongue is like a blade to the chest.

Oh, fuck you. Fuck you for the way you’re looking at me. Fuck you so much.

I slam my palm against the door beside her head just to watch her flinch. To get that horrible gentleness off her face.

“You want to know what gets me off more than the killing?” I say, voice ragged. “Playing with you. Fucking with your head. Because strip away all that practiced sweetness, and you’re just as twisted as I am. Just as hungry. Just as vicious. That’s why cutting me made you come alive. Because for once in your miserable life, you got to be the one holding the knife.” I meet her stare, letting her see every ugly, squirming thing inside me. Daring her to look away. “We’re the same, Devaliant. Both of us rotting from the inside out. The only difference is that at least I’m honest about it.”

I drop her to the floor and wrench myself away from her, stalking down the corridor without a backward glance. I don’t stop until I’m barricaded in my room with the door slammed shut behind me. Only then do I let my shoulders sag.

Viscera clotting stone. Piles of blood-matted plumes. BC. The Bloody Court.

Something rears up in my throat. I stagger into the washroom and collapse to my knees in front of the toilet. Then I’m retching, throwing up everything in my stomach until there’s nothing left but blood and bile.

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22

BRYONY

THERE’S AN OLD Vartenan tale that says everyone is born with two snakes coiled around their heart.

Both begin life with equal potential, nourished by human emotion. The dark snake feeds on fury and pain and the things we bury deep. The bright snake eats love and happiness—all the sweet things that feel good.

One snake is destined to twist more snugly around your ribs, to become part of you. Over time, it nourishes you with the emotions it fed on and gives back everything it took. The other snake is destined to starve and die.

The one that lives is the one you feed.

Every time I entered the Void, the shadow snake just kept getting fatter. When my uncle left me on the Duehavn, and I woke up with all that rage inside me, it gorged itself on the feast.

And now I don’t know how to stop feeding it.

We’re the same, Devaliant. Both of us rotting from the inside out. The only difference is that at least I’m honest about it.

Thorns tear at my skin as I pull weeds, but I welcome the sting. Ten little cuts, ten moments of distraction from his voice twisting my thoughts. Rip. Sting. Bleed. Bright, hot points of realness in the numb fog of everything else. If I hold tight to this pain, maybe I can block out all the rest for a little while. This is hurt I choose. This hurt obeys me.

Strip away all that practiced sweetness, and you’re just as twisted as I am. Just as hungry. Just as vicious, the Wolf’s words echo in my head.

“You’re upsetting them again.”

My heart slams against my ribs at his voice. I keep my stare focused on the ground, refusing to acknowledge him. Refusing to give him the satisfaction.

“The roses don’t like it when you bleed on them in anger.”

“They’re strangled from neglect,” I say through my teeth. “I’m amazed they feel anything at all.”

“Devaliant. Look at me.”

I’m tempted to tell him to leave me alone, but I doubt he’d listen. He wants to pry me open.

My chin tips up. The Wolf is backlit by the dying sun, feathers gilded in amber. He’s shirtless, muscles and gleaming skin on display. So lovely it aches.

He closes the distance in a few measured strides. “Let me see.”

His fingers close around my wrist, turning my palm to examine the damage. An electric current flows through my nerves at the point of contact.

“These are deep,” he says, running his thumb over the worst cut. I barely stifle a pained hiss. “The roses are punishing you. It’s how they talk. How they let you know when it’s time to stop pushing.”

I tug free of his hold. “I can handle a few scratches.”

A considering tilt of his head. “Is this you punishing yourself for something? Or are you just taking your frustrations out on my garden because you can’t take them out on me?”

“You’d know plenty about distracting yourself from your anger, wouldn’t you?”

His eyes shut briefly. “What you’re doing to yourself isn’t about last night.”

I could deflect like I always do. Hide behind fury and loathing, parrot the usual empty words that I use to keep people at arm’s length. But that won’t work on him. It never has, not from that moment in Hellevig when he looked at me, understood the hunger beneath my skin, and let me cut him open.

That shadow snake fed and fed and fed.

“Is this why they call you the Wolf?” I sneer. “Because you’re like a dog with a bone? Weeds don’t pull themselves.”

“So your first thought was to hurl yourself into a rosebush and bleed all over it until something gave? Either the thorns or your skin?”

“You’re the one letting them run wild in the first place! Maybe if you cared about something other than playing butcher to the realms and toying with me, your flowers wouldn’t be devouring your damn tower!”

“Enough.”

An emotion flickers across his features—there and gone too quickly to catch, but if I didn’t know better, I’d almost call it regret.

Then he’s crouching behind me, wings flaring for balance. He tugs me between his legs, my back against his chest. This close, his scent invades my senses—citrus and petrichor. It fills my lungs and my head until I’m dizzy with it.

“Like this.” He reaches around me, caging me between his arms. “There’s a trick to it.”

I inhale sharply when he takes my hands, every part of me suddenly sparking to life at his touch. Wanting.

“If you want to understand a thing,” he murmurs in my ear, “you have to learn its nature. What makes it feel.” His voice drops low, intimate. Like we’re sharing secrets in the dark. “These roses aren’t like their mundane counterparts in Vartena. They’ll sense any frustration and impatience lashing at them. Listen to them. They’re trying to tell you something, but you’re too busy fighting to hear it. Feel my hands.”

I watch as he sets his hands under mine and works the soil. His movements are slow, almost reverent, as he shows me how to coax out the most stubborn weeds.

“When all the roses sense from you is anger, they lash back when you get close. Patience is key. You can’t go in like a woman on a warpath, or you’ll find yourself torn to shreds. You have to take your time.”

My face flames, and my stomach swoops. I know he’s talking about more than just the roses.

“Gentle, gentle,” he admonishes when I move to yank out a gnarled root. “Prove you’re not a threat, and it might surprise you how eagerly they open up and let you get at the things that hurt them.”

“Since when are you interested in being gentle?”

A hard exhale against my nape. “Five minutes. That’s all I’m asking. Five minutes of you not fighting me every single step. Let me guide you.” His fingers lace with mine, pushing my hand down into the soil. “Breathe out the anger,” he commands softly. “That violent urge to dominate, to make the world bend and break itself to your will—you have to let it go. All it will get you here is bled dry.”

“Tell me you see the irony,” I whisper.

His teeth graze my earlobe in warning. “Don’t give me a reason to reconsider this little lesson,” he whispers back.

Breathe out the anger. Let it go. Two snakes twisted around your heart. Which one lives?

The one you feed.

So I shut up. I let him lead, his body moving with mine as he shows me how to gentle the roses. It’s a lot like a different kind of dance—the slow drag of his calluses against my knuckles, the indecent way we slot together, the rhythmic flex and glide of our fingers in the dirt. A push and pull. A give and take. He advances, I retreat. He demands, I yield. Over and over, as implacable as the ocean tide wearing away stone.

“Like that.” The approval in his voice sends liquid heat pooling low in my belly. “You’re a quick study.”

It feels… good. To pour myself into this simple task and let everything else fall away. The solid warmth of him seeps into my skin, grounding me. Gentling me. Without conscious thought, I melt against him, my body going soft.

If he’s surprised by my surrender, he doesn’t show it. Just shifts his weight to better support me.

I lose myself in sense impressions. The drag of his calluses against my palms. The steady thump of his heart against my spine. There’s no room for anger here. There is only this. Him. Me. The roses.

“So why do they call you the Wolf?” I ask him, filling the silence.

“Many gods have several names,” he says, leaning around me to tug at a knot of turquoise weeds. “Ones given to us at birth. Ones we earn.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see his wry smile. “What do you think I should be called?”

“Hawk, maybe. Because of your wings. Or another bird name.”

He laughs softly, tightening one arm around my waist as he bends forward to whisper in my ear, “Do I remind you of a bird?” His teeth graze my neck. “Or do I remind you of a wolf?”

Well, he’s got me there.

“Wings aren’t unique in Scillari,” he adds. “Earned names don’t come from something we’re all born with.”

“Then how did you earn your name?”

He goes quiet, and then, “You ask too many questions.”

I don’t push. I file the secret of his name along with all the others—why he lets these roses grow wild when he clearly loves them, why he hates my family. All of these little bits of him that he keeps hidden away, stacking like stones. Because he’s approachable like this. Vulnerable. The male beneath the god is someone I might like if we were anyone but who we are.

“It’s almost nice,” I say into the deepening twilight, “when you’re not threatening to devour my heart.”

A stutter in his breathing. I feel the whisper of a smile tucked into the crook of my neck.

“Why, Bryony Devaliant. Was that a compliment? Should I be worried?”

“Just enjoying the change of pace.” I focus on the hypnotic flex of his fingers against mine. On the way his skin shimmers like stardust in the falling night—such a striking contrast to the opalescent sheen of my own. “Waiting for us to revert to our usual animosity.”

The arms bracketing me go tense before forcibly relaxing. “Not everything has to be a battle. Sometimes a god is just a male, wanting to make you feel good after making you feel bad.” He pauses, and when he speaks again, the words sound like they’re being dragged out of him. “Sometimes he says and does unspeakable shit he can’t take back. He fucks up and tries to make it right.”

“Is that your way of apologizing?” I risk a glance at him.

“Yeah. It wasn’t—” He blows out a short, frustrated exhale. Warm against my nape. “Last night wasn’t about you. Not really.”

There had been an emotion on his face yesterday. Past the manic gleam and the snarl and snap of his jaws at my jugular was a pain so deep that it cut like glass.

“Something hurt you,” I say, choosing my words carefully.

Something broke you.

“Yes.”

My heart trips and stumbles. I clear my throat. “A lot of injuries bleed beneath the skin,” I say softly, thinking about my days in Hellevig. “You can’t see them, but you feel them with every breath. It’s worse when someone else is there to witness you break apart.” My hands are trembling now, but I force myself to continue. “Especially if it’s someone you hate. Like you’re handing them the knife, knowing you’ll end up bleeding out all over the floor. But it’s easier, too, because they’re already primed to hurt you. And that means you don’t have to be the one to dig your fingers into your own wound. You get the agony without the guilt.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just rests his chin against my shoulder, and something in my chest hitches at the casual intimacy of it. At how easily we slot together when we’re not fighting.

“You don’t have to tell me specifics,” I say. “Keep your secrets if you need them. But don’t ever use my hands to hurt yourself again. Not like that.”

His chest expands against my back on an inhale. “I won’t,” he finally says, so soft I almost don’t hear him.

We stay like that for a few more minutes. Watching the sun bleed away, listening to the breeze rattle through the trees. His hand strokes mine.

Then he releases me and rises to his feet. I feel the loss of him immediately.

“Here.” He unhooks the double sheath at his waist. When he presses it into my palm, the hilts are warm from his skin. “Two throwers, Turpori steel. One for tending my garden, and the second as an apology.”

I run a finger over the dagger. “And the other two that Amara says I need?”

He flashes a smile. “I don’t part with god-forged steel on a whim, nemesis. You’ll have to earn them. Surprise me, and they’re yours.” He strides back toward the tower. “Try not to antagonize my roses again,” he calls over his shoulder. “When you’re finished here, come find me. I’ll see to the damage.”

And I’m left alone with nothing but the lingering sensation of his touch.

If you want to understand a thing, you have to learn its nature.

I exhale and think of Evander’s hands guiding mine. Closing my eyes, I breathe in the sweet perfume of the roses and let all my emotions drain away until there’s nothing left but purpose.

The one that lives is the one you feed.

The thorns part for me like water.

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23

BRYONY

THE RHYTHMIC THUD of blades hitting their marks greets me when I enter the Wolf’s armory.

My breath catches. He’s shirtless, muscles rippling as he launches a dagger into one of the straw targets lined up on the other side of the room. The warm glow of the illumination sigils on the walls dances across his wings and sweat-dappled skin. He runs a hand through his damp hair and sights the target. Inhales. Releases.

Thunk. The weapons group so closely together that the hilts almost touch.

“Hey,” I say, leaning against the door.

He glances over. Those eyes flick over my body in a slow sweep, taking in my belted silk robe, my hair still wet from the bath. “I see you managed not to shred yourself on the roses again.” He lets another blade fly. “Progress.”

“The roses and I came to an understanding.” I cross to the weapon racks, running a finger down one of the stiletto blades. “I want to talk about the knives.”

He drops into a chair, legs stretching. I can’t help but let my gaze linger on the way his muscles shift with the movement, on the trail of dark hair disappearing into his waistband, and the graceful V-shaped ridges on his torso. That sweet, subtle curve emphasized by light and shadow.

“Let me work my magic on today’s battle trophies first, and let’s see if you can convince me about those weapons,” he says, patting his thigh.

I’ve lost count of how many nights we’ve done this. These healing sessions have become a sort of ritual, simmering with the unspoken thing between us. He likes it, I think. The way I lower myself onto him, letting my body sink into his, slow and steady. That I’m too stubborn to beg for the pleasure he offers each time.

It’s just another game we play. But tonight, I want to throw him off-balance. I want my victory.

So I go to him. I lift the hem of my robe and straddle his lap, pressing my knees to his hips. His scent envelops me—sweat, smoke, a hint of spice. The Wolf’s palm presses into my lower back, pulling me close until I’m right up against the rise and fall of his chest. His warmth seeps through my silk robe, and it takes everything in me not to grind against him to relieve the ache between my thighs.

His other hand finds my bare knee, igniting sparks as he drags his touch up, up, up along my inner thigh, and then down. Grazing. Teasing. When his power finally reaches for me, I sigh. It sinks deep and searches for today’s damage—cuts, bruises, breaks, tears. And I want. Fiercely. Uselessly.

Every touch carries a different meaning. The grasp of his fingers is, let me undress you. The slow drag of his magic is, I could make you feel so good. And every so often, his eyes lift to mine in a silent message I hear with every panting breath: let me have you. He’d do it so well, too. He’d shatter me apart, then put me back together again, shiny and new.

But that’s not what tonight is about. So I grit my teeth, lock my muscles, and swallow down the moans building in my throat. Bit by bit, he heals me, soothing away every ache and pain until my skin is unmarked again.

“One of these days,” he whispers, “you’re going to stay right here after I fix you up, and I’m going to make you forget every reason you shouldn’t let me have you.”

“But not today,” I say.

“No,” he agrees. “Not today.” He sits back, his power retreating as his hands fall away. “Make your case.”

“You told me to earn the daggers. I want to compete with you for them.”

Those amber eyes flare with interest. “I’m listening.”

Got him.

“Three shots each at the target. Whoever hits closest to the center three times in a row wins.”

“You want to challenge a god to knife-throwing,” he says flatly. “An Eternal who’s been training for centuries. Just to be clear.”

“If I beat you,” I continue as if he hadn’t spoken, “you give me the other two daggers. And you let me draw first blood when you come to hunt me in Vartena.”

“And when you lose, what do I get out of it? A free show and a chance to gloat?”

When, not if. His arrogance would be infuriating if it weren’t exactly what I was counting on.

I smile and lean back, resting my hands on his thighs. “If I lose our wager, you can do anything you want to me. Tonight only.”

He goes still, gaze darkening as it drags over me, the amber irises nearly swallowed by black. The Wolf, for all his power and cruelty, is still just a male—so easy.

“Anything?” His voice is a low rasp.

Good. Let him be hungry. Let him starve.

“Anything. No restrictions, no safe words. Deal?”

His chest rises and falls faster, hands flexing on my hips. “This feels like you’re angling to fail on purpose.” His fingers glide down my stomach, slow and teasing. “Poor little nemesis, have you been lying in bed with your hand between your thighs, wondering how I would feel instead? Is that what this is about? Because you don’t have to lose a contest to get me inside you—”

I seize his wrist, so close to where I’m wet and aching. “Win tonight, and you can lower this hand another inch.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Only an inch?”

“Maybe two, if you’re nice.”

He tilts his head, studying me like he’s trying to figure me out. “You know I could probably hit those targets blindfolded, right?”

“Then prove it. We’ll blindfold you.”

“Hmm.” He grazes his other palm up my side. “When I win—”

“If.”

“When I win,” he says, fingers digging in, “I’m going to use this body. Fuck it however many times I want. And by the time I’m done, the only name you’ll remember is mine, and all the ways I can make you scream it.” He leans forward, dragging his lips down my jaw, whispering, “Maybe I’ll even let you come if you beg real sweet.”

The promise in his voice makes my thighs clench. But I force myself to slide out of his lap and pluck a scrap of fabric from the wastebasket beside the weapon rack—some old rag he uses to clean his knives. The Wolf tracks my movements as I tie it over his eyes, careful not to catch on his hair.

“Whenever you’re ready,” I say, pressing a dagger into his palm.

He stands, testing the weapon’s balance. Then he takes a deep breath and throws. The blade streaks through the air, hitting the center of the farthest target. I hand him another blade, another, watching that cocky smirk grow as each weapon hits its mark.

Yanking off the blindfold, he flashes me a sharp grin. “Top that. If you can.”

I brush past him, letting my shoulder graze his chest. He sucks in a sharp breath and a thrill goes through me—anticipation. “You know what I love about wagers?” I peruse the weapons cabinet, fingers trailing over hilts and blades. “It’s all in the details. The precise words. The parameters. In our agreement, I never specified the type of weapon we had to use. Only that it had to hit closest to the center.”

I see the instant it clicks. His eyes sharpen and fix on my hand as it closes around the recurve bow mounted on the wall.

“One of the benefits of growing up in Hellevig,” I continue, testing the draw, the tension, “is that all noblewomen are trained in the ‘genteel’ arts. Painting, pianoforte…” My smile sharpens. “Archery.”

He growls as I nock the first arrow, imagining it’s his heart I’m aiming at. I draw back until the fletching grazes my cheek, breathing in. Shifting my aim just slightly. Exhale…

And release.

The arrow hits the leftmost target. Bullseye.

The Wolf’s hand clenches at his side, the barest tell.

“Seems those ‘genteel’ arts paid off,” I say mildly. “One down. Let’s up the stakes.”

I lower the bow, reaching for my robe’s sash. The silk whispers as it falls to the floor. The Wolf’s eyes flare, taking in the black lace and silk nightgown. Sheer mesh clings to my breasts and hips, hiding absolutely nothing. There’s naked… and then there’s this. Bait dangled on a hook to tempt a monster.

“What the fuck are you doing?” His voice is a low rasp.

“What’s it look like? You said to surprise you if I wanted the full set of knives.” I run a hand down my side, smiling as he tracks the movement. A muscle flickers in his jaw. “So consider this a thank you for the present. You did get this for me, didn’t you? It came in my clothing bundle last month.”

I slide my finger over the delicate lace barely covering my nipple. A harsh breath leaves him. He says something under his breath that sounds like a curse.

“Tell me something,” I say, reaching for the second arrow. “When you brought home this nightgown, what were you thinking about? Me wearing it?” I slant him a look as I nock the arrow and draw it back. “Or were you too busy imagining all the ways you’d get me out of it?”

The arrow buries itself in the target, right next to the first. Dead center.

I grin. “Two for two. Sure you don’t want to just give up?”

He’s so still, every muscle tense and ready to lunge. To grab. There’s no concealing the hunger in his expression, as if he’s thinking up all the ways he’ll dominate me, claim me, make me his.

But I’m not done yet.

I spin the third arrow between my fingers. “No? Okay then, one last question. In these fantasies of yours, did you take your time undressing me, or did you just bend me over and fuck me in it?”

His chest heaves, hands flexing at his sides. I have the Wolf right where I want him, and this power is dizzying. It’s depraved how much I want him on his knees for me. At my mercy for once.

“You really want to know?” he asks roughly.

“I really want to win,” I reply with a slow grin.

And maybe torture him a bit. Payback for all the nights he’d left me aching after those healing sessions.

The embers in his irises glow. “I thought about having you in every way.” The admission seems torn from somewhere deep. Somewhere aching. “Against every wall. Bent over every table. In every bed. I’ve fucked you a thousand different times in my head. Made you scream. Made you beg. Made you break.”

Heat pools between my legs. I know what he’s doing—he’s telling me what he’ll do to me if I lose. Making me imagine all the ways he’d take me. But I’ve been living with the Wolf leaving me wet and wanting for five weeks. Every damn night he heals me, my body reminds me how good he could fuck me. It’s not going to work.

I bring the bow back up. “That’s too bad. Because tonight, you’ll go to bed aching and desperate. And alone.”

I let the last arrow fly. It hits right in the center, not even a millimeter of space between its sisters. A perfect grouping.

Victory.

“I won,” I taunt, facing him. “Say I won fair and square.”

He stares at me, and he looks furious. Ravenous.

“Come on, Wolf. Three little words. ‘You beat me.’”

Scowling, he snatches the bow from me and tosses it aside. “Fair and square? That was cheating, you arrogant creature.”

I grin slowly. “Was it? Or did I outplay a stronger opponent? Move. Countermove. Disarm. Attack, remember? It’s not my fault you walked right into it.”

For a breathless moment, I can’t tell if he’s going to kiss me or kill me.

But then he laughs, and it’s the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard, resonant and deep. And dangerous.

His amusement feels like he’s slitting my throat.

“Just wait,” he says, leaning into the weapons cupboard to pull out a leather bundle. “When you least expect it? Payback’s going to be a bitch, Devaliant.”

The Wolf sets the bundle on a table and unrolls it to reveal two daggers perfectly matching the ones he gave me in the garden. They’re exquisite—the steel folded and layered in the unmistakable rippling patterns of Turpori craftsmanship. These aren’t just weapons. They’re works of art.

“Satisfied?” he asks.

“They’ll do.”

“Oh, they’ll do, will they? Entire kingdoms have been razed for steel like that. Maybe show a little appreciation.”

I can’t tell if he’s serious or trying to get a rise out of me. It’s impossible to know with him.

I reach for the blades, but he’s suddenly there at my back, scent invading my senses. Making it difficult to focus on anything but him.

“Want to know a secret?” he asks, plucking a dagger from its sheath.

He sets the edge above my collarbone. Not pressing. Just resting there like a promise. Like a threat.

“The first cut is always special. These blades are ancient. They’ve tasted kings and warriors. Generals and thieves.” His free hand slides up to grip my jaw, angling my head back. “They remember every drop of blood that’s ever christened them.”

My breath comes faster now. “Is that so?”

I feel his smile against my neck, hungry and sharp. “Oh, yes. They remember everything.”

There’s a sudden, bright flare of pain as he slices the blade across my chest. My lips part on a gasp. Before I can process what’s happening, he ducks down and—

His tongue sweeps over the shallow cut.

A whimper slips out of me, and he answers with a groan, lapping up the trickle of blood. He ends his taste with a tender kiss.

“Been wanting to taste you for weeks,” he murmurs. “Ever since you stopped talking to me. Drove me fucking crazy.”

This isn’t happening.

But it is. And worse—I’m leaning into it. Into him. Into this dark, twisted thing between us that feels too much like falling off a cliff. No handholds, no rescue—just him and me and the long plunge to the bottom.

When he finally pulls back, his pupils are dilated, black overtaking his golden irises. He lifts the bloodied dagger and traces his tongue along the edge. Savoring every last drop of me.

“How long do you think this’ll last?” His voice is rough with want. “One more month? Two? Before I get bored?”