Chapter 28 #2
Blood is about to be spilled.
“Who’s lying now,” he growls, the teasing lilt gone, his tone low and rough. His fingers release my hair, trailing slowly down my ribcage, pausing just above my hips… where my blades are.
I shove him, palms pressed hard against his chest. “What do you want, Derian?”
“The truth, preferably, Huntress.”
The word is a blade, and he wields it like he knows exactly what it will do to me.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he mocks. “Is that another thing I’m not allowed to call you?”
My blades fly before I even realize I’ve drawn them. They cut through the air, aimed with lethal precision. One for his heart. The other for his right eye.
And the bastard catches them.
One hand clenches the blade that should have pierced his chest; the other grips the dagger that should have blinded him.
He doesn’t even blink.
“Tsk tsk,” he tuts, shaking his head. “No need for violence.”
He sets my blades down in the chest of weapons he had delivered to me, turning his back to me as if to remind me he doesn’t believe I can actually hurt him, which only infuriates me more.
I reach for the dagger on my thigh, lunging forward, but he spins with unnerving speed, catching my wrist mid-swing.
“Huntress,” he chastises, his voice heavy with boredom.
I growl, slamming my boot into the back of his knee. It barely buckles, his body only slightly shifting under the blow. Unwilling to give up, I drop the dagger from my right hand, catching it with my left and driving it toward the tender spot above his kidney.
But he’s so fucking fast.
Far faster than either Elise or his guard.
I’ve never actually seen him fight, I realize. I’ve heard the rumors and watched him wield storms like a child playing in a sandbox, but I’ve never seen, with my own eyes, the skills that have made him infamous.
The blade clatters to the floor as he twists my wrist, his other hand gripping my hip to pivot us. Before I can react, my back slams against the wall, his forearm pinning me at the collarbone.
I gasp when he steps forward, and I feel him everywhere.
“Do I even need you to confirm it at this point?” His tone is sharp, cutting.
“You want me to say that I killed him?” I spit, glaring up at him, leaning into the rage and pain that burns through me. “I did. Happy?”
His eyes burn into mine, heated and unrelenting. “Not quite.”
“What do you want, Derian? Details? Fine.” My voice rises, even as I keep struggling against him. “You were wrong about my first kill. It wasn’t when I was ten. I was seven. Sent into the home of some rich couple as an orphan before I stabbed them both in their sleep.”
His expression doesn’t falter, even as I keep going, my darkness spilling out of me into pools of tragedy all around us.
“Perhaps you want to hear about the more gruesome kills? I’ve had two decapitations—messy things, by the way.
Once, I cut off a man’s hand and had tea in his parlor while I watched him bleed out.
The worst was the owner of a fight ring.
Big guy. Threw me around until I lost my weapons and had a nasty head wound.
So, I had to improvise.” My lips curl in a humorless smile.
“Cake platters are surprisingly effective.”
Derian raises a brow. “A cake platter?”
“I’m remarkably adaptive.” I surge against him, trying to push him away, but he only leans in closer, his body pressing mine harder against the wall.
“Is that what you wanted to hear?”
“You never cease to intrigue me, Huntress.”
His grip shifts, fingers wrapping around my throat firmly. The heat of him radiates through my skin, igniting something deep inside me that I desperately try to suppress.
And then I feel it.
Him.
The hard length of him presses against my lower stomach.
How is he turned on by this?
How am I turned on by this?
I level my hands on his chest and push. I can’t think when I can feel the hardness of him pushing against me, desperate for me.
He doesn’t even budge, even as lightning cracks outside.
“You’ll have to try harder than that,” he tells me, that infuriating smirk dancing on his face.
I roar in anger, forcing my focus away from the shape of his mouth, the lines of his jaw, the curve of his hair around his ears.
“How many?” he asks suddenly, his head tilting inquisitively to the side.
“What?” The question jars me from my thoughts.
“How many have you killed?”
My thoughts scatter, trapped somewhere between defending myself from what’s clearly about to be a fight to the death, and the pressure against my stomach sending waves of unbearable need down my spine. I shift, clenching my thighs together, and the bastard’s lips twitch like he notices.
I glance toward the sword propped against my bed, calculating, but his body blocks every clear path.
“Don’t make me ask again,” he says, his grip on my throat tightening just enough to pull my eyes back to his.
My lips part, and the truth spills out before I can stop it. “Forty-one. Well, forty-three if you count the two from today.”
I never forget the running tally.
His eyes heat and his gaze flicks to my lips sharply before he chuckles softly. “Not as many as I thought.”
He’s a monster. A bastard. He’s the epitome of everything that’s wrong with the Fae.
“So why don’t you get it over with, then?” I shove him again, cursing when he doesn’t move. “If you want me dead as punishment, then kill me.”
“Why would I do that?” He purrs. “The Conclave will take care of that for me tomorrow.”
My gut twists, bile rising in my throat.
“Then leave,” I snap. “Either fight me or get out.”
He tilts his head. “You tried to fight me. You lost.”
“Then go!”
“I don’t want to.”
The sound that rips out of my throat hardly sounds human. I level my glare on him, needing him out of this room before I do something that could only be described as a mistake. “I want you to.”
“I think it’s time we both stop lying,” he murmurs, his voice low and intoxicating.
Once more, I hopelessly try to shove against him, but he’s simply unmovable. His hips are a solid force pinning mine to the wall. “I’m not lying!”
“Oh, but you are.” He leans closer, his breath brushing my cheek.
“You’re a good liar; I’ll give you that.
I suppose you have to be in your line of work.
But your body can’t lie. The way your hips press against me, the way your breath caught when I wrapped my hand around this pretty throat of yours, the way your pulse is beating under my fingers.
” His lips quirk into a smirk. “Not even you can hide that, Huntress.”
My traitorous breath quickens, every desperate inhale bringing my chest closer to his. Wind slams against the window, the now-growing storm outside mirroring the tension between us.
“I hate you,” I whisper, painfully aware of how hollow the words sound.
I should hate him.
But hate is most definitely not what I’m feeling right now.
Every part of me hums in anticipation. My blood is boiling. My need is all I can think about, and there’s only one being in all the world who can get rid of the ache inside of me that’s been growing since I stepped into that darkened office and found the masked stranger sitting behind a desk.
“That doesn’t make what I said any less true,” he points out, his other hand squeezing my hip.
He’s a Fae.
A fucking Fae prince.
“Still want to lie and say you want me to leave?” he asks.
I clench and release my jaw. “Why exactly do you insist on staying?”
He doesn’t move. Neither of us breathe.
I can’t look away from those dark eyes.
“Because if this is your last night alive, I’d like to help you spend it screaming in pleasure.”
His people are the reason my father died.
And no bedtime story is going to convince me that his people aren’t the cause of the Wastelands.
“And I think you might want that too.” His voice is nothing more than a whisper.
I hate him.
With every part of me, I hate Derian Silverthorn.
And I’m going to regret this the second it’s over, but regret isn’t enough to stop me.
Because, even though I despise him, he’s right.
I do want that.
I desperately want him.
He leans towards me, and my resolve snaps.
If I am to die tomorrow, then I’ll let him ruin me tonight. My fingers curl into his shirt, and his mouth quirks into a crooked, genuine smile when he realizes he’s won. I pull, yanking him down to me, my lips crashing into his with all the fury I can’t put into a blade.