36. Chapter Thirty-Five #2
My world was a blur of heated sensations and charged emotions.
Mine. His. Anger. Hate. Desire. Longing.
Disgust. Fear. I was alight with the thrill of his touch and the delight of appalling him.
But I was just as abhorred by myself and this terrifying feeling building inside me, one of wanting something that didn’t make sense.
When he finally pulled back, Archer’s lips were smeared with my lip stain, but he wore a triumphant grin. I followed his gaze, mortified to see embers floating in the air around us.
“I told you that you’re burning up. You’re positively on fire for me, Feathers.”
“And I told you I hate you. That’s all that matters.” I shoved him away, and as before, he resisted. “You mock my kind, rejoice in our deaths, and you would love to see me suffer. If I wasn’t useful to you, you’d cheer as I was executed.”
Archer’s eyes shuttered.
Just as swiftly, the fight left me. I was exhausted, terrified that I’d lose control and be found out in a crowd of people who despised me, and I was bewildered by my reaction to this smug prince’s kiss.
“I’m done with this party. Please excuse me to go back to your rooms,” I whispered.
“The knife.” He held out his hand, his expression flat, that sharp jaw of his working.
When I lifted the edge of my skirt to reach for the hidden inner pocket that held the knife, he swallowed and averted his eyes. I settled it into his waiting palm and, drawing a deep breath and dispelling the sparks still darting between us, I slipped out of the alcove.
Archer
Earlier
Humiliation. Fear. Anger. I almost welcomed those as I stared down at the ruler I held in place of a cake knife. I had come to expect those feelings when dealing with a death-lover. They were far more palatable emotions than the bitter stab of grief that chased them.
A ceremonial knife wasn’t exactly the most threatening weapon, but it could be wielded as one all the same.
It was proof that Isoria couldn’t be trusted.
She was a manipulator, a conniving fire demon, just like they all were.
Surely she’d been twisting my emotions to convince me to let down my guard.
She couldn’t lie, but she could act, and she’d managed to weasel her way past my defenses until I’d even thought back on her past pranks as almost charming.
But this wasn’t merely a prank when it left her with a knife.
Who was she planning to murder? Father? Briar? Owen or Lily? My chest tightened at the thought.
The cold was swiftly replaced with fury. Her own feelings of triumph and delight were so strong that it was easy to pinpoint her across the ballroom, tucked away in an alcove out of sight of most of the crowd.
But I’d always find her.
Father’s anger gave me unspoken permission to leave the dais and weave my way to Isoria. My party continued without me as I cornered her, determined to make her confess her plans to me and surrender the knife.
I hated the way that my breath caught when my gaze fastened on hers. The way my traitorous eyes slid to her lips, and I thought of how warm and soft she was when I carried her, how innocent she looked in sleep. How her emotions had become so familiar to me, like I knew her heart as well as my own.
But that’s just the blood bond. Not true intimacy, because obviously everything about her is a trick.
Everything broke down in a delirious haze after that.
The next few minutes played out like a fever dream, like something I’d fantasized about but didn’t dare give into.
The way she’d declared she hated me. How I’d taunted her, some masochistic part of me wanting to pick at my own wounded feelings and get her to admit she felt something for me even when her actions had shown otherwise.
Those kisses. Too passionate to be an act, surely. Her own magic had betrayed the heat she’d felt, her embers dancing around us as she’d clung to me like a lifeline, kissing me back as fiercely as I’d kissed her.
I didn’t just feel hurt and angry. I felt desperate. Desperate for her to not be like the other death-lovers. Desperate for her to care. Desperate for her to admit that she didn’t hate me, that whatever strange spell-like emotion I’d found myself trapped in, she felt it too.
She tasted sweet and familiar and forbidden.
And when she reminded me what I did to her kind, it had felt like cold water thrown over the heat of the moment.
Enemies.
She hated me. I was supposed to hate her. I couldn’t trust her, and I bloody sure couldn’t let her walk away with my knife.
Oddly, she’d given it up without a fight.
As she walked away, I stared at it, studying the lights cast by dancing pixies flashing along its gleaming surface.
If she’d planned that prank to obtain a weapon, wouldn’t she have tried to hide it away before I could take it from her?
Or used it against whoever she’d been targeting?
I didn’t want to feel hope, not when I should have been wanting reminders that she was one of them, the kind I hated and hunted. But I did.
I shoved the knife into my jacket pocket and tried to shake off a wave of dizziness. Where was Owen? I needed a friend to talk to, someone level-headed who could keep my mind off the puzzle that was Isoria.
Isoria
I was halfway to the ballroom doors, my exit nearly secured, when murmurs echoed through the crowd behind me. “Your Majesty!” cried a voice. “We’ve caught another!”
The hairs on the back of my neck rose and my blood turned to ice. Not again.
When I turned, there was too much commotion, too many crowded bodies, to see over the heads of those between myself and the guards dragging in another condemned phoenix shifter.
Nausea clung to my tongue. How could I possibly stand by again when another one of my people was executed right in front of me?
A hand on my wrist startled me, and I choked on my gasp. Lily was at my side, her own complexion ashen. In that moment, it felt like I had an ally, even if she didn’t think phoenixes were innocent. She simply hated violence.
But I loved her a little more for this.
“King Wystan surely isn’t going to force him to slay another on his birthday.”
I glanced back to find that Owen stood behind Lily, his expression solemn.
His height allowed him a clearer view, and I wondered if he could see all the way past the crowd—which was growing frenzied-looking, practically blocking the guards’ paths in their eagerness—to the victim.
“You know he will, Lily,” he said in his rumbling tone.
“He will consider it part of the celebration. A way for the future king to prove himself to his court on his birthday.”
“Where is he?” Lily asked frantically, scanning the crowd. “Did he leave?” She glanced at me, still holding my wrist, as if the point of contact was buoying her as much as it helped me.
I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. My skin went hot and cold. Vaguely, I remembered sparks of flame in the air, desire and anger tangling. Archer’s hands on my face and in my hair, his lips on mine.
He couldn’t be far, but I couldn’t summon the focus to call to him with my mind.
Isa. Get out of here. Archer’s tone was firm and commanding in my head.
Not a chance.
Anger mingled with my fear, giving me the strength to tamp down on my urge to unfurl my magic. But what if I did? a wild, angry part of myself wondered. What if I lost control and burned down this entire ballroom?