8. Stage of Grief （Seductive） Bargaining #2
“You’re intrigued by my prospective . . . domination. You want me on . . . top of you.” The buzz made me brave. “Do you not?” Still hanging off the bed, I raised the long cigarette to my eyes, studying it. “You’re the one who just sucked on . . . me. I bet you want to do it again.”
Tarantula jolted as if struck. The shadows in the room gained claws, silver thickening around his tensed shoulders, and then it exploded. A crushing sensation hit me.
“I AM YOUR SOVEREIGN. SLEEP, RAVENAL!”
I passed out.
* * *
Sunlight blinded me, and with it came a bucket of shame.
I shot out of bed, dial raised defensively. What the heck did they put in those cigarettes? Southerners are crazy. I whirled around.
The object of my hatred lounged casually on his bed with one cuffed arm relaxed lazily behind blond curls. Prisoner chains dangled across his platinum mask. I’m never smoking again.
Heat flushed across my face. “What the damned did you do to me last night?”
Tarantula stared back at me impassively, no recognition showing on his face. “Nothing. What art thou rambling about?” He tilted his head to the side and pointed to the extinguished cigarette lying half burned on the floor. “Thou were high on that stupid stick, and I—”
“You did something to me and I slept.” I aimed the dial at him harshly, trying desperately not to think about the ridiculous way I’d acted. I’d flirted with the enemy while his chains were wrapped around my neck, and I . . . liked it.
“Thou retired from exhaustion,” Tarantula said slowly. “I do not know what type of dreams have misled—”
I cut him off. “Stop trying to gaslight me. I know what happened.”
“Do thou . . . really, Ravenal?” he asked with a cryptic drawl as he wiped his thumb across his lower lip suggestively.
Memories of his tongue against my fingers sent sparks of awareness down my frayed nerves. He kneeled in front of me, holding my jaw as he licked vulgarly across my cigarette. The hair on my arms stood up.
The Marshal would be pleased.
I wanted to die.
Metal refracted sunlight across the room as he tucked a curl behind his ear. The top of his jumpsuit was unzipped perilously low, revealing the chiseled planes of his hard chest. Absolutely revolting. I focused on his spider tattoo and tried to think about Aurora and Mom.
He smirked like he had a secret.
We both do.
“Why do you keep calling me a vassal?” I asked, changing tactics. “Explain yourself.”
He sighed heavily. “Thou art a Knight Mage. I am a Royal Mage. That renders thee—” he pointed his finger at my throat “—my vassal.” His smirk could strip paint.
“What are you talking about?” I asked. “Those are just names—”
“Art thou sure?” His frigid tone had a modern edge. “One of us is bred with magic in their veins, and the other is . . . made.”
“What blood was used in the Iron Ritual?”
He flashed his teeth like a dire wolf but didn’t answer. A pit expanded in my stomach, unease mounting.
“Where does the storm magic come from?” I asked louder.
“Not the right question.”
“Where does the Mist come from?”
His eyes sharpened. “Thou would never believe me.”
“What determines a Royal Mage’s type of storm magic?”
His gaze shuttered. “Inheritance.” A gust of silver-laced wind whipped through my hair, but he didn’t expound.
“Stop being a cryptic bastard and just tell me what the—”
Tarantula unfurled fluidly off his bed, rising to his full height. The sharp scent of magic mixed with other notes. Dark cherry and . . . nefarious schemes? I discreetly sniffed the air, intoxicated by the danger; adrenaline pounded through my veins.
I inhaled deeper.
“Art thou done objectifying me?” Tarantula asked in a clipped tone as he wet his lower lip.
Fighting embarrassment, I shrugged like I didn’t care. “It’s just a scent. Am I not allowed to enjoy it?” I inhaled loudly, moaning dramatically to get a rise out of him.
The tendons on his neck strained under his collar with such force the metal creaked. He muttered something under his breath in his rough heathenish language. Chains clinked against his cuffs as he dragged both hands through his messy curls, stalking toward the washroom.
I shot off the bed, beating him to the door, and blocked his path.
He worked his jaw back and forth as he tried to incinerate me with his eyes. “Stop afflicting me, Ravenal.”
Squire sat up on my pillow, feathers sticking up on his little head. He flew onto my shoulder. “Morning, spider whore,” he sang sleepily (very helpful).
I waved the dial and closed the washroom door in Tarantula’s face.
“Thou vexing, impudent wench.” He made an unholy sound of agitation on the other side, and there was a crash in the room as if something had been thrown. He was somehow both the damsel in distress and the despicable dragon at the same time. The duality of evil.
I hastily turned on the shower. Fully clothed, and afraid to be naked within his proximity even with the door shut, I turned the water up to scalding.
Resting my forehead against the wall, I tried not to cry. Squire preened his feathers, chirping with delight.
My quest: impossible.
How did I ever think I could defeat the Empire?
Shaking, teeth chattering, I used my dagger to resharpen my toothbrush shiv—just in case. You could never have too many weapons. Gripped by the exhaustion of intense pressure, I dropped to my knees, hands clasped, eyes closed, face tilted up at the spray. I prayed for strength.
I am lucky and blessed. The universe conspires in my favor. What I desire desires me more. My quest is possible. I can do it. Please, old god, protect me.
A few minutes later, I pushed past Tarantula into the room with a towel wrapped tightly around me and my soaking clothes.
“So improper,” he muttered, cheeks flushing red as he kept his gaze averted from me.
What’s his problem now? I’m covered in clothes and a towel.
“You’re pathetic,” I said.
“I know.” He stalked past me and slammed the washroom door shut.
After changing in a rush, I sprinted out of the hangar as fast as possible. The sand radiated heat, burning my legs, and I savored the exhaustion of pushing my body to the limits. Freedom. Squire bobbed his head while he balanced on my shoulder, urging me forward.
“I think we’ve finally lost him.” I relaxed into the flow.
“Who art thou losing?” Tarantula asked.
I screamed.
“Hoo?” Squire squawked as he flapped his wings with fright.
“Where the damned did you come from?” I looked around with confusion. I’d been sure we were alone. How does he keep sneaking up on me?
Tarantula didn’t answer as he easily fell into step beside me.
After an indeterminate amount of time, I lost my ability to pretend he didn’t exist. “Have you ever heard of personal space?” I asked. “Get your own morning routine.”
“Cease blithering, partner.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
“Silence yourself, brat.”
“Me speak,” Squire offered (cute).
Tarantula rolled his eyes.
When we crested the final dune and the gothic spires of the base came into view, he pulled ahead of me.
For a moment, I contemplated letting him win.
Zaps echoed as electricity exploded out of his collar for a single second.
A little shock is good for the constitution.
He threw sand, bellowing with rage behind me.
It was just enough to let me win. Heart in my throat, I leaped with all my strength, gasping with relief when I landed in the hangar first.
Rule of survival: Never lose, especially not to men.
After last night, I needed to reassert the balance of power.
I held my arms up and did a victory dance, savoring the rush. You’re still better than him. Winner, winner, dragon dinner—
A heavy weight slammed into me from behind.
Not again. Turning midair, Tarantula took the brunt of the fall.
He rolled so I landed on his chest as he smacked down onto the cold marble floor.
Chains jangled loudly, and wings flapped as Squire detangled himself.
We grappled. His bicep wrapped around my head. He held me immobilized.
His balaclava hovered inches in front of my face. “Curse upon your house, Ravenal. Thou art the most exasperating woman on the face of the—”
“Good,” I said, proud to be difficult.
He rolled, his heavy weight crushing. “Infuriating brat,” he muttered under his breath. “Always arguing and hurting me with such impropriety . . .”
Closing my eyes, I went limp, pretending to be dead.
Tarantula felt my forehead. “Ravenal?” He sounded concerned.
I wrestled, twisting so I landed on top. Triumphantly I shoved my forearm into the side of his face. “Don’t be such a prude,” I gloated, enjoying the feel of him at my mercy.
A man’s true place is beneath a woman.
“Are you two done?” the Marshal asked, her face severe as she stood over us. Dead silence filled the hangar. Everyone stared at us.
“Yes?” I said.
“No.” Tarantula bowed his back, arching with impossible strength and rolling again so he loomed above me.
“Now ’tis over.” He released me and climbed to his feet as he poshly brushed off his prisoner jumpsuit.
He still didn’t pull up the zipper. Someone should report him for violating the dress code.
I pushed myself up onto my tired legs.
“Today’s practice assignment.” The Marshal glared at me with disappointment—a frequent expression these days—as she held out a piece of paper.
I snatched it before he could take it.
“No,” I said, crumpling it in my fist. “Are you out of your—”
“Silence, Knight.” She cut me off, refusing to meet my eyes. She’s trying to force us closer. “Your pilot is ready for the training run.”
“Silence, Marshal,” Squire squawked as he finished hovering and landed on my shoulder (not helpful).
She glared at him.
I shook my head. “But why would we—”
“This is a trust exercise.” Her glare was withering. I could practically hear her mentally screaming at me to be silent and obey. “You two need it.”
In this moment, I hated her, almost as much as I hated him.
“So let me get this straight,” I said. “You want us both to jump from a helicopter, and you want me to pull . . . his chute?” I pointed. “His—Tarantula’s?”