22. The Sound of a Name #3
I snatch up the discarded knife. Straightening, I lunge at him, coming closer to him than advisable, but in my desire to hurt him, I don’t care.
“Aren’t you?” I let the tip of the blade twist and turn like a slow-grinding screw, grazing the hollow at the center of his very muscular chest. “I’m not free to leave. You’re holding me prisoner.”
He angles his head. “You’re a . . . guest.”
“A guest?” I laugh harshly, pushing the tip of the blade until a drop of purple blood swells around it. I frown at the sight, transfixed. If I need a reminder that he’s not human, here it is.
“What are you waiting for?” he whispers, the scratch of his voice pebbling my skin to gooseflesh.
My gaze darts to his face, to his intense expression trained on me. He’s not the least bit concerned that I could skewer him, and it infuriates me, this sense that I am useless.
“You don’t think I can?” I’d trained with the village guard, but it hadn’t been to combat something like him. Still, he was a big target and offering no resistance. I could do it. I could plunge the tip of the knife into him.
“I know you can,” he returns, his voice flat.
I snort. “Then it won’t hurt you, is that it?” Like Danhy said: it would have to be dragon bone to kill him. “You’ll simply heal and—”
“Oh, it will hurt,” he calmly replies like pain is nothing to him. “That’s a sharp blade and you’re aiming it right at the center of my chest. It will fucking hurt, and it will take me a long time and Viggo’s greatest efforts to see me fully recovered.”
And yet he doesn’t step away. He stays put, inviting me to do my worst.
I can’t do it, though.
He continues talking in that empty, unimpressed monotone. “I will see that you are comfortable here, warm and fed.”
At this, I look at him again. So calm. So ruthless. Comfortable in his role of captor.
Warm and fed? The anger flashes to life in my chest again. “I won’t be your pet!”
“No, you won’t,” he agrees. “You’ll be expected to pull your weight, help with chores, and—”
“You act like I’ll be here forever.”
He shrugs. “Of that, I cannot say. You’re my guest until I can trust you.”
Until I can trust you.
Can such a thing ever be possible? A dragon trusting a human? I cannot imagine that. Nor can I imagine that I will ever trust them. Even if they are not the same dragons who slaughtered my village, I’ve seen what they’re capable of. I’ve seen, and I cannot unsee it.
His response feels like a noose looping around my neck, tightening and strangling. I try to reason with him one more time. “I just explained no one can hear or see me—”
“Doesn’t matter.” His features are as cold and implacable as stone as he shakes his head, strands of dark hair pelting his jaw. “Let’s assume you’re telling the truth—”
“I am—”
He holds up a hand. “There is nothing to say your curse won’t end one day . . . or you come across another witch and tell her of your experience with us. Any witch could see you, and they’re out there. More than you think. The only enemy greater than humankind to a dragon is witchkind.”
I blow out an exasperated breath. Clearly, I won’t get anywhere reasoning with him. I will have to figure out how to escape him and find my way out of these mountains. Apparently I’ll have plenty of time to do that as his guest for an undefined time.
He glances to the knife I still hold against him. “Are you going to keep that thing pointed at me much longer? It’s been a long day. I’m hungry and would like to eat.” He arches a dark eyebrow. “Wouldn’t you?”
In response, my stomach growls.
I can’t even recall when I last ate, and yet I resist backing down and lowering the knife. Withdrawing the knife feels like a concession, and I don’t want him to think anything about this is acceptable.
He continues. “I’m sure you haven’t eaten in a while. You’ll need your strength for what lies ahead.”
I narrow my gaze on him. Could he read my mind? Does he know I’m already plotting escape?
The others return then, their voices overlapping.
“Tage,” one of them calls out. “We’re hungry.”
He looks at me mildly. “We require frequent feeding.”
Danhy spots me with the knife pointed at him and gives a disgusted huff. “Such disrespect. You haven’t put her on her back yet?”
I bristle.
Tage steps closer, overwhelming me, blocking out the others. “Arden? Are you going to lower that knife?”
I forgot that I gave him my name.
He utters it so softly a tremor runs through me at the sound, at the realization that this is the first time someone has spoken my name in a decade.
I drag in a raw breath, overwhelmed, swept up in that awareness, in the sting of emotion too complex and myriad to identify.
My knees turn weak and wobbly as I drown in his impossible violet eyes.
Impossible eyes. Impossible man.
Because he is no man . . . even if my name in his mouth makes me feel here, seen, and alive, and the most human I’ve felt in years.
He lifts a hand and touches the tip of the blade with a finger. Using the barest pressure, he lowers it, and I let him, knowing that I could not summon the will to use it on him.
“Food?” he inquires.
I hesitate before nodding my reluctant agreement. “Food.”