Chapter 32 BEE
THIRTY-TWO
BEE
I have seen many dark ones before.
I have been in the presence of dokkalves, some fullblood, others like Dare, born of two fae bloodlines.
All have been fearsome, formidable, dangerous.
Yet none have made me so cold with terror that I am stuck in place, breath trapped in my chest just at the sight of him.
This dark one is not like the rest of them.
There’s something off about him, something that feels like frost forming over my bones.
I hide from it.
I hide from him.
The senses of the dark fae are sharp, and so he must know I am here, pressed between these two cars. But he advances solely on Tesni, the only one of us still out in the open, the only one of us who might still be able to run.
But she doesn’t.
Like me, she’s frozen stiff.
The dark fae crouches down at her boots, just at the nose of the car—and he just considers her.
“Bee.” A sharp whisper from above strikes me like a smack, and I flinch. “Bee.”
I throw my wild glare up at the net.
Emily is twisted around, the torch tucked under a boot at the bottom of the net.
Her wet eyes alight as our gazes connect.
She points down to the ground.
I frown at her, then slowly turn my gaze to the icy road between my legs. The shotgun rests there, the barrel delicately leaning on the side-mirror protruding from the car.
It’s not what Emily is pointing at.
I brush my gaze over the serrated knife on the road. I must have dropped it before I fell over the side of the car, and the shotgun tumbled with me.
My heart flips through my chest.
Emily might be pointing at the knife, a silent plea for me to pass it to her, but every second I spare on her is time I leave Tesni at risk.
I move for the shotgun.
Slowly, I draw my boots closer to the curve of my bum, then lean my weight forward.
I catch the gun before it can slip off the mirror—and I bring the butt to press into my shoulder.
I rise from the narrow wedge between the cars, gun aimed. My steps are slow and cautious around the car—but as I move, Tesni comes into view.
I don’t know what I expected. If the dark male would have his hand fisted in Tesni’s throat or her beating heart thumping on his palm.
But he is just… crouched in front of her.
Their gazes are locked, Tesni’s eyes dancing with tears, the same that streak down her raw cheeks and tremble on her parted lips.
Frozen in fear.
Like I was.
But not now.
I press the barrel to the nape of his neck.
The dark male tenses, the slightest tension that ripples beneath his leathers—
I speak his language, “I know your kind. I know your weaknesses. And we both know, if I shoot you right here—it is fatal.”
I don’t lie.
I don’t know a lot of ways to kill a dark fae.
It’s not like taking down a human. The anatomies are not the same.
Those slight differences, organs sheeted in extra layers of protection, more muscles, stronger muscles, more bones, stronger bones, hearts in the other side of the chest—but this spot right here, the press of the barrel into the nape of this one’s neck, that will blow his spinal cord to pieces.
He knows it, too.
He stays crouched.
The blonde of his hair pales to the shade of snow in the harsh torchlight; the strands glimmer as, slowly, he turns to touch his chin to his shoulder.
Dark lashes lower over his eyes, casting shadows down to his tense jaw.
His voice is an added chill to the air nipping at me, as though the ice itself intensifies with his threat, “Your friend will suffer the consequences.”
A shudder rattles me.
I steel myself against it, my breaths harsh and choppy through the misty air.
But is he wrong?
If I pull the trigger, and he moves out the way fast enough, it’s Tesni who will take the buckshot.
Right in the face, too.
Close range.
“Stand up.” I wish I sounded strong. Determined. Like I am as much of a threat to him as he is to me. But my voice wavers, pitched, and I know he can taste my tears in the air.
But he does as I say.
His hands press into his thighs before, slowly, he rises—and rises, and rises, and I forget how huge these fae are.
This one might be different in a way, but not in size.
His muscles slink beneath his leathers as he towers over Tesni, who’s still huddled up on the ground at his boots.
I slide a step back. “Turn around.”
He doesn’t.
His boot moves for the right, and he sidesteps away from Tesni.
I trail him with the barrel of the gun.
My finger trembles around the trigger, the faintest almost touch—but squeezes the moment he blurs in front of me.
And that’s what he does.
Blurs.
This male moves with the cold, the ice in the air, as though he’s shuddering through space, as though he belongs with the frost, not the darkness.
In that blurring moment, he’s turned to stand over me, his hand firm on the barrel—the barrel that he’s pushed down to aim at Tesni…
And I squeezed the trigger.
In the panic, in the rush, I squeezed it—and the gun trembles in my grip with the blast.
Tesni is thrown back onto the ice, a harrowing scream splitting her.
And I just stare.
Wide-eyed, I can just watch as she screams and screams and…
I loosen a shuddering breath.
It’s not loaded.
A hollow sound grates me, the purest ugliest relief I have ever felt. It sags me, and for this moment, this heartbeat, I forget all about the dark male holding the barrel of the gun, looming over me.
He reminds me of his presence.
He yanks the gun out of my grip in one, swift move.
I swerve my wide gaze to him—just as the butt of the gun is coming down on my head.
I hear the crack before I feel it.
My boots slip over the road, once, twice, then the road is rushing up at me.
Hot blood runs down my face. A trail, tickling from my brow to my temple. I frown against it, the sluggish fog draping over me, and I try to get up from the road.
All I manage is to lift my head.
My chin digs into my clavicle, and I blink through the haze, the blood, as the fae returns to Tesni.
He crouches over her, grabbing at her pockets, digging through them as she flails and her face twists with screams.
A grunt catches in my chest.
I flop onto my side, hand slapping down on the road, as though I can drag myself to her.
But before my vision can clear, the dark male has drawn away from her, two red shells in his hand.
I watch, stunned, as he slips the shells into the chamber—then cocks the shotgun, like he knows how, like he’s seen it before, enough times to understand how to load the weapon, and clear used shells…
The stare I fix up at him is filled with horror.
His eyes flare, alight with intention, and slowly, he turns the barrel on me. “You must be the kinta,” he says, and my blood runs cold. “Bee.”
A breath escapes me.
He drifts the aim of the shotgun over Emily, snagged in the net, then to Tesni, quivering on the ground.
His words come in English, sheathed in a barbed accent, “So which one of you is Tesni?”