6. Stage of Grief Anger #2
Raking a hand through his messy curls, he shook his head as if coming out of a daze. “That was . . . improper.” His voice cracked. Is his hand trembling? “I apologize for my loutish behavior—”
“Not accepted.” I pushed past him toward the bedroom—
He yanked me backward. He had my braid twisted around his fist and my head pulled back at a harsh angle as his face hovered inches from mine. Once again, he’d moved impossibly fast.
“What . . . are you doing?”
“Nothing,” he said hoarsely, fixated on my mouth. His eyes were clouded over, unfocused, and the tips of his ears were bright pink.
“Release me,” I demanded, struggling to concentrate with his scent polluting my nose: dark cherry and magic. It was masculine, rich, and drenched with tyrannical intentions.
Tarantula bit down on his overly full lower lip, shaking his head as he slowly untwined my braid from his wrist. Chest heaving, he dropped my hair and jerked back, shoulder slamming into the wall.
“Don’t touch me ever again,” I whispered, goose bumps on my arms as I backed away, dial raised. “Please.”
“Then do not tempt me with your fire,” he muttered under his breath.
“What did you just say?”
“Nothing, Ravenal. Nothing at all.” He spat out my last name like it meant something to him.
A few minutes later, I hurried through the hangar with Squire on my shoulder. Dire horses neighed as I passed. A familiar face flashed in my peripheral vision.
I stopped in my tracks.
Whirling, I pointed at a soldier. “What is that?”
He handed over the newspaper with a low bow. The Democratic Papers had a bold headline: “The Birth of a New Hope: The Bear of the North Captures Royal Mage.”
A masterful portrait filled the page below it.
On one knee, a woman held up a Royal Mage by his blond curls. A bone dagger protruded from his stomach. She had a long brown braid, and scars stood out stark across her bronze face. A pygmy owl sat on her shoulder.
Had there really been that much blood on the floor? I could still remember the day like it was yesterday—the day I captured Tarantula.
The Marshal had made it official. Every soldier in the hangar was reading it. Now everyone in Westmere knew our sordid history.
Frozen with shock, I barely registered when the bastard in question snatched the paper from my hands, prisoner chains clinking.
I stared blankly across the hangar.
Tarantula loomed above me in a white balaclava. “Thou—” He inhaled noisily, a cloud of silver expelling from his mouth. “You,” he corrected himself with quiet menace, “had a portrait session done with my unconscious body?”
“Unconscious ugly whore body,” Squire hooted (helpful).
A magical wind gusted across my face, burning my eyes. Soldiers in scarlet backed away, looking between us like we were wild things.
“I wish I had just killed you,” I said honestly. For Aurora.
“How dare thou, Ravenal.” Tarantula stepped closer, cuffed hands rising.
“No—how dare you.”
Squire bobbed his head. “How dare we?”
Tarantula grabbed my braid and yanked me to the floor, hard. Squire flapped away as I punched out, grappling. A glass jug of water on a bench nearby exploded into pieces, and he flipped to shield me as the shards scattered across the floor. Crap, my magic.
Kicking, I scrambled out of his hold, hiding my hands. I sprinted out of the hangar and into the desert. The dial was cold against my chest, tucked into the tight material of my exercise bra.
Squire cawed, soaring above.
Running across the dunes, I kicked sand, shrieking with frustration at the top of my lungs.
The Middlelands sucked, and my quest was impossible.
All my luck had run out. Sweat dripped down my neck as I half ran, half fell forward up the stupid sand, wishing it was a snow-covered mountain.
I needed my snowboard and hours alone in the forest.
No, you’re still lucky. You can handle him—
WHAM. Tarantula slammed into me from behind, throwing me down the dune. We rolled, his rough hands wrapping around my throat. He didn’t squeeze, just . . . held?
I kneed him in the balls. He grunted and swore. I pounded my fists against his kidneys as we kept tumbling. He grabbed my wrists with a bruising grip. I slammed my face forward. He barely dodged the blow. We finally came to a halt.
I bucked.
He held my hands as if in a vise above my head; his fingers shook with rage.
He was splayed atop me. Our chests, hips, and legs were flush together. Where does he start and I end? Angry heat poured off him, more scorching than the sun. A pounding thud reverberated between us, and it took a second to locate the source: our hearts raced wildly in tandem.
His face hovered above mine, eyes narrowing. “Sadistic wench,” he spat out, studying me like he was planning my execution, as he held me pinned to the hot sand.
“Spider,” I said back coldly, hyperaware of the hardness growing between his legs, pressing against my core.
Damn him.
Scoffing harshly, he pressed my wrists down harder and ever so tantalizingly rolled his hips. Languid torture. We both made breathy, guttural sounds. Shivers traveled down to my toes.
White-hot pleasure streaked where our legs touched, radiating out across my flesh. His cloth-covered lips hovered above mine, minty breath tingling across my skin. His pupils blew out.
“What are you . . . doing?”
“What art thou?” he said roughly. Layers of sinew and taut, violent strength pinned me. It felt like he was trying to crawl under my skin. I should be hurting him. My back arched high. I desperately needed more friction.
“What is the meaning of this?” My head tipped back.
“Thou art ruinous.” His chest heaved against mine.
“Thou art temptation of the highest order. No woman has ever tested a man like this. Your violent temperament . . .” He turned his head to the side and buried it against my neck, inhaling loudly.
“ ’Tis perverse.” With a tormented rasp, he pressed firmly against my heat, grinding against it through the fabric. “I detest thee.”
My core spasmed, and I nodded in agreement. The hatred is mutual. He swore gutturally under his breath.
A whimper nearly escaped my throat. I choked on it, struggling to swallow around the putrid self-loathing.
Your quest.
I was lying beneath the enemy.
Kill him.
“Curse upon your house.” I bucked my hips, bridging with all my strength, twisting to push him off. “Get off me.”
“Too late for curses.” He rolled away, landing on his back, spread across the sand. He pressed a glowing hand to his heaving chest, then stiffened abruptly and sat up, his eyes like thorns. “Such a violent woman.”
I scrambled away from him, jumping hastily to my feet.
Posture perfect, he stood up gracefully like he’d taken decorum lessons on how to extract oneself elegantly from a brawl. He pulled his shoulders back, and the haze of silver around him flickered black. Dark clouds gathered overhead, blocking the sun. Where did they come from?
“Partner.” He adjusted the balaclava over his face like a crown. “Since thou already got a portrait glorifying your success, thou art going to show me your impressive Knight powers . . . Your training starts—NOW.”
Silver exploded, wind battering me from all directions. He oozed unrepentant predation.
I spun aimlessly in a circle, waiting for him to choke me, but it didn’t come. Instead, a gust slammed into my stomach. Another rammed into my back. Then my legs. Grit abraded my skin, blood beading from fresh wounds.
He bludgeoned me with magic, and for the first time, it felt . . . personal. Cruel. He wielded storm magic like an ax, cutting me down.
I yanked the dial from my bra.
“Coward!” he taunted. “Use your powers—Knight Mage.”
Putting the dial away, I raised my arms into a Shield, steeling myself for his abuse. Pretend you’re like the twins. My hands glowed as I tried not to flinch. His eyes narrowed, glaring at me across the swirling, silvery wind.
Raising his arm high, he sent another wave of magic straight for my face.
I held my Shield up.
Bang. It threw me back into the sand.
Groaning, I got up to my feet, only for him to send another gust that tossed me into the air.
I slammed down roughly, choking on sand.
He bellowed, stalking toward me, his pale eyes shining as metallic flames smoked off his skull. “Do something!” The wind gusted harder, pummeling me from every direction, and I gritted my teeth, taking the battering.
I leaned forward, refusing to drop my Shield, trapped in a tornado.
The gusts intensified, and my feet lifted off the ground.
I fell to my knees, hacking, sand gritty in my lungs. Finally the wind stopped, and I gasped roughly, still suffocating. Tiny dust devils extinguished all around.
Chains rattled. Bright desert light burned my eyes as silver boots stepped close.
“Thou art pathetic, Ravenal.” Tarantula crouched down next to me, blocking the sun. “A disappointment of unimaginable degrees. And to think, thou could have been great. Instead, thou art . . . this.” He was a cruel, vengeful god. But he’s not my god.
I spit onto his expensive boot.
He arched an eyebrow. “Do that again . . . I dare thee.”
I obeyed.
His eyes hardened. “Lick it off.”
“I still remember—” I coughed violently, ignoring his depraved request “—that day on the bridge.” I pounded on my sternum, struggling for air. “You were . . . a sniveling wretch of a man.”
He straightened to his full height, staring down at me. The harsh planes of his face were completely expressionless. Inhuman. He was a block of cobalt-veined marble masquerading as a man.
“So don’t you dare call me pathetic,” I whispered hoarsely as I got to my feet. Wiping sweat and sand off my face, I stumbled away from him.
“Thou know nothing, Zora Ravenal.”
“I know you’re chained and leashed like a pathetic dog.”
Tarantula stilled. “Art thou asking me to bite? Is that why thou keep spitting on me?” He grabbed my arm, wiping his thumb across a bloody abrasion.
“Oh, get over yourself!” I shoved him away, then traced the tooth marks scarred across my throat.