Chapter 36 The Cold Prince
Jace
Idon’t knock. I don’t know why I’ve even come. Habit, maybe. Or hope. Or something in between.
The hallway’s dim, washed in that pale kind of light that makes everything feel softer than it is. My hand rests on the doorknob, fingers flexing once.
She’s probably asleep. Still, I open it. Quietly. Carefully.
And then I see him. Tex. In her bed.
His arm wrapped around her bare waist, my territory, like he has any right to touch her in her sleep. As if he’s earned it, or she’d choose him if she were awake.
Her face is tucked into the space between his neck and shoulder. Her hand curled over his chest like it belongs there.
It doesn’t.
There’s a sheet, but it doesn’t hide much. Not the flushed skin. Not the mess of her hair, spilling across the pillow. Not the way they’re tangled together like they’ve done this before. Like they’ve always done this.
The beast inside me rages, seeing her in the arms of another man. She’s mine. She belongs to me.
My breath catches in my throat, but I don’t move. Don’t make a sound. I just stand there, fingers still on the knob, watching them in silence like some kind of fucking ghost.
I watch the rise and fall of her breathing, that little crease between her eyebrows she gets when she’s dreaming. Even now, even unconscious, she’s fighting something.
And he thinks he can soothe her? He thinks he can be her comfort?
Ridiculous.
She has no idea how many enemies she’s made just by existing. How many knives wait for her back to turn. And Tex—that idiot—sleeps like a rock with his guard down, while she curls into him like he’s safe.
No one can keep her safe like I do.
My pulse spikes, slow and lethal.
And I hate it. I hate that it hurts. I shouldn’t stare. Shouldn’t imagine sliding my hand where he is. Replacing it. Taking what he pretends he owns.
She’s not his.
She’s mine, whether either of us likes it or not.
If he were awake, he’d see the danger in my eyes. The warning. The promise of his blood.
The things I’m willing to do to protect what’s mine.
I grip the edge of the doorframe, fingers curling into the wood. I should look away.
But I don’t. I let it hurt.
I was molded to serve a purpose, to be a weapon.
One day soon, she’ll look at me and finally understand.
I’m not going anywhere.
And I will burn down the world before I let anyone touch her like this again.