Chapter 9 Thorns And Roses #2
I lift my hand to the marking, finger tracing along the delicate lines with touch that trembles despite my attempts at composure.
The contact triggers something unexpected—the mark fades beneath my fingertip, disappearing as if it was never there, leaving smooth skin that shows no evidence of the intricate design.
I draw my hand back.
The mark reappears.
Thorns and roses blooming into existence the moment I stop touching them, the pattern as clear and detailed as it was moments before.
What...
"Unique hiding capabilities for a bond mark, don't you think?"
His voice cuts through my confusion with casual confidence that makes my jaw tighten. I meet his eyes through the mirror's reflection, offering nothing but a side glance that communicates the depth of my current irritation.
He lounges at the table like he owns it—like he owns the room, the Academy, potentially the entire realm.
One elbow rests against the polished surface, chin propped in his palm, posture radiating the particular arrogance of someone accustomed to getting whatever they want.
Those impossible features continue their subtle shifting in the library's light, never quite settling into something I can definitively categorize.
I say nothing.
Let him interpret my silence however he wishes.
The tension in the room shifts—electric charge building in the space between us, magic responding to emotional states neither of us is fully controlling.
The floating candles flicker in response, flames dancing with increased agitation, shadows lengthening along the walls in patterns that suggest awareness of what's about to happen.
One moment I'm standing before the mirror.
The next I'm in his face.
Vampire speed carries me across the distance faster than mortal perception could track—one heartbeat at the mirror, the next with my hand around a butter knife from the table's elaborate place settings, the blade pressed against the vulnerable column of his throat.
The motion scatters air in my wake, sending napkins fluttering and candle flames bowing away from the sudden disturbance.
The metal dimples his skin with pressure that suggests serious intent, and I watch his reaction with satisfaction that borders on savage.
His pulse beats against the blade's edge.
I can feel it through the metal—steady, unhurried, the particular rhythm of someone who isn't afraid of the death I'm threatening.
His blood sings to my vampire senses beneath that thin barrier of skin, carrying notes of power I don't recognize, flavors that promise sustenance unlike anything I've tasted before.
He whistles.
Actually whistles, the sound escaping pursed lips despite the weapon threatening his jugular. The vibration travels through the knife into my fingers, adding insult to the injury of his apparent unconcern.
"Vampire speed always turns me on," he admits, and there's genuine appreciation beneath the flirtation.
His eyes sparkle with the particular light of someone who enjoys being challenged, who finds my aggression more attractive than alarming.
"But killing me with a butter knife would be treason at best."
The audacity of the statement makes my fangs extend without conscious permission.
I feel them lengthen against my lower lip, predator's teeth responding to prey that refuses to act appropriately threatened.
The transformation triggers secondary changes—pupils dilating, senses sharpening, the particular readiness that comes from vampire nature recognizing a situation where feeding might become necessary.
The knife presses harder, sharp edge now pinching at flesh that should be showing more concern about its continued integrity.
"Royal to royal wouldn't necessarily cause war between quarreling lovers," he continues, apparently unbothered by the blade at his throat.
His voice remains conversational, almost playful, as if we're discussing weather rather than potential assassination.
"Though I do love the enemies-to-lovers trope in books these days.
Wouldn't that make our love story more romantic? "
A hiss escapes me—low, warning, the particular sound vampires make when patience has worn thin and violence hovers on the horizon.
He seems delighted by the response.
"Ah, yes." His head tilts slightly despite the knife's pressure, eyes meeting mine with knowing that makes my skin prickle. "You probably don't appreciate being hungry while dealing with individuals you've never been formally introduced to, yet find yourself bonded with."
The observation lands with accuracy that stings.
"How rude of me."
His smirk grows as he leans forward.
The motion forces a choice—maintain the blade's threatening pressure and actually cut him, or adjust to preserve the threat of violence without committing to its reality.
My hand moves before my mind finishes the calculation, tilting the knife just enough to preserve his skin while he invades my space with deliberate provocation.
His grin widens at my accommodation.
Bastard.
He did that on purpose.
Tested whether I'd actually hurt him, and watched me prove I wouldn't.
"Your mind would love to slay me," he whispers, close enough now that I can feel his breath against my cheek.
The intimacy is unwelcome and electric, my body responding to his proximity in ways that have nothing to do with intellectual approval.
"But your heart—that delicate, treacherous heart of yours—has always known better. "
His eyes hold mine with intensity that threatens to drown.
"No wonder it hid the chalice so perfectly in plain sight."
The mention of the artifact sends ice through my veins.
He knows.
He knows about the chalice, about my heart being its hiding place, about secrets I barely understand myself.
His chuckle vibrates through the air between us, low and rich and infuriatingly attractive. The sound does something to my insides that I refuse to acknowledge—warmth pooling in places that have no business responding to this arrogant stranger regardless of whatever bond mark decorates my forehead.
"I'd gladly be cut by the woman destined to be mine," he continues, voice dropping to registers that feel like physical touch against my skin. "But that would remind your body how low your blood reserves are..."
He trails off deliberately, letting the implication hang between us like fruit waiting to be plucked.
"And well." That smirk again, sharper now, edged with suggestion that makes heat climb my cheeks and throat. "This feast of a breakfast would turn rather frisky, if you know what I mean."
Frisky.
He's suggesting that cutting him would trigger my blood hunger, which would lead to feeding, which would lead to...
I narrow my eyes further, knowing the crimson bleed of vampire hunger now stains what should be silver irises. The transformation only seems to please him more, his gaze tracking the color change with obvious appreciation.
"Which I have no problem with in that department," he adds, tone carrying promises that make my throat tight and my pulse race despite my attempts at maintaining composure. "But I do love a woman I can fight for before I finally have her between the sheets."
"I hate you."
The words escape before I can stop them—raw, honest, carrying frustration that extends beyond this moment to encompass everything about my current situation.
The mysterious bonds, the unexplained transformations, the way my body refuses to cooperate with my mind's very reasonable objections to this entire interaction.
I pull the knife away, spinning it between my fingers with dexterity born from years of training. The motion is meant to demonstrate capability, to remind him that my restraint is a choice rather than a limitation.
I step back—
And don't get far.
His arm wraps around my waist before I can process the movement, supernatural speed matching mine, strength that suggests he's been holding back becoming suddenly apparent.
His grip is iron wrapped in silk—unyielding in its control but not painful, possessive without being cruel.
The world tilts as he pulls me down, gravity becoming suggestion rather than law, and then I'm sitting.
On his lap.
The position is intimate in ways that make my breath stutter and my mind go momentarily blank.
I can feel the heat of him through the sheer panels of my dress, the solid muscle of his thighs beneath me, the particular hardness that suggests my proximity affects him as much as his affects me.
His arm remains around my waist, keeping me anchored, preventing escape without obviously restraining.
Our faces hover inches apart.
Close enough that I can count the individual lashes framing his impossible eyes, close enough to see the way his pupils dilate in response to my nearness, close enough that every exhale he releases brushes against my lips like a phantom kiss.
The intimacy is suffocating and electric, hatred and attraction tangling together until distinguishing between them becomes meaningless exercise.
His scent fills my awareness—something dark and rich and masculine, undertones of frost and midnight flowers that make my vampire senses purr with interest my conscious mind refuses to endorse.
How dare—
"Prince Koishii Yoshiro."
The introduction cuts through my gathering outrage with formal precision, his voice dropping to registers that vibrate through me in ways I desperately wish they wouldn't.
"As much as I'd love to express the glories of my Kingdom..." He pauses, something flickering behind those shifting eyes that might be genuine emotion—grief perhaps, or the particular weight of loss that never fully heals. "Tragically, it no longer exists."
The statement lands with unexpected weight.