Chapter 11 The Knife’s Edge
Chapter eleven
The Knife’s Edge
Snow White shifted, unintentionally pressing her hips back against him.
Hunter’s restraint shredded another inch.
The knife’s edge still lay against her throat, a cold, thin reminder of what he was supposed to be doing.
His other hand drifted over the curve of her shoulder, the dip of her collarbone, to the torn edge of her bodice.
Her clothing had been pulled and ripped in the flight through the forest. One strap had snapped entirely, leaving the rough fabric gaping.
The upper swell of her breast was exposed, skin pale and vulnerable. His fingers brushed there.
Snow White froze. The sensation was like nothing she’d ever felt.
This was heavy and deliberate and charged with something that made her stomach flip.
Fear. Maybe. But something else too. Something that felt like standing too close to a fire—hot, dangerous, but impossible not to reach for.
She felt comfortable with Hunter. She had known him all her life.
He was almost like an uncle to her in many ways, a young, brave, strong…
“Hunter,” she said, her voice thinner now. “What—”
“Don’t speak,” he muttered. “Just… don’t move.” His thumb grazed the curve of her breast, tentative at first, then bolder when she did not flinch away. The rough pad of his finger caught on the sensitive skin of her nipple where it strained against the torn cloth.
A sound—small, unbidden—escaped her throat.
The smell between her legs thickened, slick heat spreading low in her belly.
Her knees went weaker for an entirely different reason than they had just hours ago.
Confusion roared through her. This man had been her closest peer once, her friend, the one who’d lifted her into the saddle and called her “princess” in a tone that hadn’t felt mocking.
Now he held a knife to her throat with one hand and cupped her breast with the other, his breath hot against her ear.
Old trust warred with new excitement. Somewhere between the two, something wild stirred.
Right now, she was shocked to discover that her body felt open, felt excited, and even felt like it truly yearned for his touch to continue.
He doesn't want to do this, she realized. The thought struck her with the force of a blow. He’s not a killer.
He’s a man in thrall. And she knew, with a sudden, sharp instinct she hadn’t thought she possessed, that there was only one power greater than Liora’s command.
“Hunter,” she whispered. She didn't pull away.
Instead, she leaned into him. The movement was so unexpected that his hand jerked back, pulling the knife a fraction away from her skin. “You're shaking.”
“Stop,” he rasped. “Don't make this harder. You’re confusing me.” At that, the threat of death vanished from her mind, replaced by a thick, suffocating tension.
Snow White knew she should run. She should push him and flee; she knew he wouldn’t chase after her.
But his body was against her, heavy and warm, and her body—betraying her, twisting her feelings—didn't want to run.
She had spent years being invisible. Here, now, under his gaze, she was the center of the universe.
Hunter’s mind flickered like a broken lantern between two images: Liora under him in a darkened room, lips parted as she rode him; Snow White, here and now, in his arms, her body echoing the queen’s at a younger pitch.
He called himself every name he could think of in his head.
Pervert. Traitor. Beast. But his hand did not stop.
The knife stayed at her throat, but its pressure slackened mostly as his grip on reality slipped.
He knew he should move it away, apologize, run.
“You look so much like her,” he rasped, lips close to her ear.
“Do you know that? Her face, her smell. I’ve loved her for so long. ”
Snow White’s heart lurched. Of course. Of course, this was about her mother, even now. The tickle of his warm breath on her ear sent a signal to the warmth between her legs. Her yearning grew stronger. “Is that what you see?” she asked, voice shaking. “Her? Not me?”
“Sometimes,” he said honestly. “Sometimes I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
” His hand slid ever so slowly over her breast, fingers spreading to touch as much of her as he could.
The rough, calloused palm scraped her nipple through the torn gown, sending a jolt of pleasure straight down her spine. She made another sound.
Her moan made him harden more against her back.
She became acutely aware of the difference between them: his size, his strength, the fact that if he chose to, he could snap her like a twig.
And yet, in this tangled moment, she realized she had one tiny sliver of power he did not.
He wanted her. Badly enough that his hand shook with desire.
Badly enough that the knife at her throat wobbled.
And she wanted him, too. If she could turn that wanting…
If she could bend it away from her death and toward something—anything—else…
She swallowed, throat moving against the cold flat of the blade.
“Hunter,” she whispered. “You don’t have to kill me. ”
He laughed once, harshly. “You think I don’t know that? You think I haven’t told myself that ten times since I left the castle?” His hand tightened on her breast. “But she—she’ll know. She always knows.”
“She promised you something. Didn’t she?”
The tremor that went through him had nothing to do with the morning chill. “She promised,” he admitted, voice rough, “to marry me. To make me king. To give me—” He cut himself off.
“To give you what?” Snow White pressed.
His silence was answer enough. She closed her eyes.
Typical. Typical Liora dangling herself like a bone in front of him.
Typical that she’d tied his leash to her own body.
Jealousy. Anger. Fire. All of it moved through Snow White at once.
And under it all, that insistent, traitorous throbbing where his hand moved and his hardness pressed.
This was madness. But madness, she thought suddenly, might be the only thing that she wanted. She reached behind her back, nervously. Her fingers closed over the bulge in his trousers.
He swore softly, the word breaking open on his tongue. “Snow White,” he breathed. “Don’t—”
“If you kill me,” she said quietly, fingers squeezing, “she’ll have you for one night. Maybe two. Maybe until she gets bored again. And then what? Another errand boy. Another blade. Another toy.”
He made a low, animal sound as her hand moved again, uncertain but determined.
“If you let me go,” she went on, emboldened by the way he shuddered, “I promise I’ll never return. And you’ll have me. Here. Now.”
He closed his eyes—his mind in turmoil. Torn between love and duty, kindness and lust, allegiance and mercy. In the dim light, with the fear and the adrenaline mixing in his blood, the lines between mother and daughter were blurring. “You just look... so much like her,” he groaned.
“Then pretend,” she whispered.
She arched her back slightly, pressing herself more firmly against him.
His hand on her breast had nowhere to go but tighter, needier.
She had never felt the electricity of foreign fingers on her nipple, and in this moment she thought she’d do anything to have more.
His hands found the tears in her dress, widening them with a rough urgency that made her gasp—not in pain, but in a sudden, sharp intake of pleasure.
When his calloused palm finally cupped her bare breast, the sensation was so intense she nearly buckled.
It wasn't the gentle romance of her books.
It was raw. It was real. And god help her, she wanted more.
“You’re—” he began, then stopped, as she stroked him once more.
His hips jerked forward involuntarily, pushing into her palm.
The knife slid another fraction of an inch away from her throat.
He was unraveling. She could feel it in the way his breath hitched, the way his fingers dug into her breast, the way his body strained against her touch.
“If you really want to do this, turn around,” he said, but this time his voice was different. Hungry.
Slowly, she obeyed. “Show me,” she said, looking up at him with wide eyes. “Show me what you wanted from her.”
Hunter made a low, animal sound. The knife dropped from his hand, thudding harmlessly into the grass. In the next breath, his hands were on her—not violent, but desperate. He pulled her against him, burying his face in the curve of her neck.
“Hunter,” she moaned, her head falling back.
“Liora,” he whispered back, his eyes squeezed shut.
The name hit her like a slap. “I’m not her!” she said.
His gaze flicked to her face, focusing for the first time.
“No,” he agreed hoarsely, feeling his erection grow strong.
“You’re… not.” For a heartbeat, something almost like sanity hovered between them.
In the next breath he had his hands on her shoulders, pushing her back against the tree, mouth crashing down onto hers in a kiss that was part apology, part hunger, part something uglier.
She gasped, the sound swallowed by his tongue.
Her first kiss—if this could be called that—was nothing like the chaste, soft touches in her books.
It was rough, desperate, edged with the memory of steel at her throat.
Heat flared through her all the same. For a moment she was unsure what to do.
Should I undress? Should I undress him? What will it look like?
What will it feel like? Will it hurt? But as her arousal grew the worries faded and instinct took over.
Hunter’s strong hands ripped the other sleeve of her dress, fully exposing both breasts. “Oh, princess,” he whimpered, unable to look away.