4. Stage of Grief Denial #3
Tarantula sat back lazily in his chair, kicking his ostentatious leather boots onto the table. “Thou art so transparent, vassal. Your anger makes thee weak . . . manipulable. Thou would benefit from etiquette lessons—”
“Why do you keep calling me that?”
The corner of his lips twitched as he fought a grin. “I call thee that because thou art my vassal—mine.” He spoke like I was a thing to be owned.
“Silence, dirty scamp,” Squire sang.
“Language, tiny bird,” Tarantula reprimanded him with a posh, judgmental air.
“PICKLED HORSE,” Squire squawked back at the top of his lungs, and I was unsure if he meant whore, but I was too afraid to ask.
With a deep, cleansing breath, I pushed my chair back, nodding calmly. I lunged across the table and shoved his chair over. Tarantula fell back with a shout of surprise.
Sprawled across the floor, he pushed himself up onto his elbows and glared daggers at me. Unsheathing my hidden bone knife, which, based on the Crimson Army code of conduct, I technically wasn’t supposed to carry on my person—desperate times—I crouched beside him with the tip aimed at his face.
“No,” I said as I rested the blade on his forehead. “You will never have a name to me other than the venomous, disgusting insect that you are. If you try to hurt me, I will do . . . despicable things to you.”
He shivered like he was turned on. “Thou art a cruel, coldhearted wench.”
It almost sounded like he was giving me . . . a compliment? Squire chirped nervously.
Tarantula slowly smiled and pressed his forehead up into my knife. A tiny bead of blood welled.
“Beware, Zora,” he said. “Thou move with cruelty—and there is naught I love more than to play depraved games.” His gaze dropped to stare at my mouth, and he slowly licked his lips.
“No.” I swallowed around the lump in my throat, forcing my voice not to shake. “There is nothing for me to fear because you could never best me.” I pulled my knife away, wiping his blood off on my shorts.
“Thou art overconfident for an uneducated serf.”
“And yet,” I said slowly, “I’m not the one chained like a captive dire coyote.”
He held his hand over his chest. “Your taunts sting—fairest lady,” he drawled mockingly.
“There is no lady present.”
“Obviously.” His expression turned smug. “But I could . . . fashion a lady out of thee.”
My blood ran cold. The conversation had taken a dangerous turn, and once again, his eyes were ravenous. His interchanging use of the archaic speech made me dizzy. Nauseous. He arched an eyebrow, looking down at where I was crouched low, nearly straddling him.
“How patronizing.” I scrambled off him. “I will never be any man’s lady—and if I commit such an atrocious lapse in judgment . . . it would be with any man but you.”
He rose gracefully to his feet, looming above me. “Do not dare speak of other men in my presence.”
“I’d have sex with every guy on this base before I ever touched you.” I was startled by my own vitriol. I’d always considered myself a happy-go-lucky person. Blessed to live free. Despite all the hunger and tragedy, I still loved my life.
Tarantula’s chest heaved, hands fisted as he glared down his nose at me. “Liar. Never speak to me of your hedonistic—”
“I’m not lying, and I’ll speak however I want. I’m just a classless serf according to you, pompous prick—”
“Thou art a wicked liar. Saying thou would not touch me when—”
“It’s the truth. I’d rather die.”
He stilled, nostrils flaring as he inhaled loudly. “False. I can smell your deception.”
He doesn’t mean that, right?
“But alas, I was not offering,” he said cruelly. “I have no interest in the sins of any flesh.” His lashes lowered, heavy with unidentifiable emotions. “I was raised with decorum.”
“You have no interest in pleasure,” I said, “because no one has ever had any interest in you. Whereas I have plenty of experience being desired.” The lie tasted like ash on my tongue.
The few times I’d had sex had been unremarkable at best, but he was flushing with rage, so I continued.
“Many men have touched my glorious flesh—”
“SILENCE!” Magic flashed black around him. “Do not speak to me of your wicked follies . . . ’Tis distasteful how thou ruin yourself.”
“Oh, I’m far from ruined,” I whispered. “But you . . .” I stepped closer to him, and his chest heaved violently as if he’d been struck. “You’re just a prude.”
Long, elegant fingers slowly reached closer, and my stomach flipped over. He grabbed the door handle behind me and yanked it open, gesturing for me to walk through. “Torturous tramps go first.”
“Thanks for noticing,” I said sweetly.
As I stalked past, he breathed out noisily. The hand hanging at his side flexed like he had a cramp, and a red flush traveled up his neck beneath his collar.
No man acts like this.
He followed behind me so closely that his body heat burned the sensitive skin on the back of my neck. I tried not to breathe because his rich dark cherry scent was heady in the air.
The bite mark on my throat tingled, and I wished for the millionth time that I’d never met him or the Emperor all those years ago.