15. Venomous Tension #2
I tried to speak, but his hand pressed down harder.
Oh nice, now he’s smothering me.
“Such bratty rudeness, Ravenal.” He tsked. “How much do thou despise me?” he asked abruptly. “Focus on that.”
So much. But what does that have to do with—
I screamed as unholy fire attacked my shoulder. White exploded between my eyes. I banged my fist on the bed, spine arching. Tears fell as agonizing streaks shot down my arm and my fingers cramped. Bile filled my throat.
The dagger dropped to the floor with a loud clatter. Warm blood gushed down my arm, ruining the sheets.
Tarantula released my face and knelt beside my bed, ripping open the medical bag. Then he leaned across me, pressing gauze into my hemorrhaging wound with both of his hands.
I screamed.
His eyes were filled with torment as he kept applying pressure. Air whistled through his clenched teeth. “ ’Tis almost done,” he said quietly as he wrapped my shoulder tightly with bandages. “Thou art so strong, syxzal.”
“Stitches,” I gasped out as I clenched at the covers, desperately waiting for the stinging to abate.
He shook his head, putting supplies away. “Thou do not need them. Your body shall heal on its own in a few days.”
“Because . . . Mage?” I asked weakly as I shivered.
“Something like that,” he muttered under his breath. His tone made alarms go off deep in my subconscious.
My teeth chattered as I lost blood, but horrible memories from the Iron Ritual strangled me, and I sat up, leaning against my headboard. Tarantula tried to stop me, but I pushed his hands away because I needed to clear my head.
He muttered under his breath but pulled his comforter off his bed.
“What are you—”
He draped it over me, tucking it gently around my shoulders as I sat frozen, watching him.
“Why?” I asked.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he sat down on his bare bed, grabbed the hilt protruding from his thigh, and yanked it out in one swift motion. “I have not a clue,” he said as he inhaled noisily. “Nothing is clear, because of thee.”
“Of course. Blame the woman.”
He opened his fingers, and my bone dagger clattered loudly to the floor. “Correct—I shall blame thee. Wicked, perplexing . . . princess.” He shook his head with frustration. “ ’Tis complicating my plans.”
I’m no princess. But the way he emphasized the title made my stomach clench. Everything spun as tiredness pulled me under.
“Well, you’re not a stroll in the forest yourself,” I mumbled. “If I was you, I’d focus on personal improvement and stop fixating on me.”
“I cannot.” His glare sharpened, frigid and unyielding, as he dug through the medical bag. He expertly wrapped a bandage around his gushing wound.
“So, what . . . plans have I complicated?”
“Thou art cruel, spiteful, and completely unreasonable,” he muttered under his breath, as if I hadn’t spoken. “I have never met someone so stubborn. Thou never let anything go. Thou art dangerously impulsive, quick to start a violent fight . . . distrustful, skeptical, obnoxious—”
“Thank you for noticing.”
“—and all-consuming,” he said. “A hunger rages for only . . . thee.”
I must have been losing more blood than I realized, because it sounded like he was insinuating something extremely dangerous for both of us. Quiet stretched as we both breathed heavily, sitting on our beds, fighting through pain.
Tarantula gestured to the chessboard arranged between us on the table, pieces positioned mid-game.
“Your turn, Ravenal.”
Grunting through the agony, I leaned over and pushed my bishop diagonally across the board, clacking against one of his pawns and knocking it off. I’d already spent hours ruminating about my next move and didn’t need to think about it.
I winked at him tauntingly.
Tarantula elegantly arched a golden eyebrow and leaned forward. He moved his knight three spaces, knocking my bishop off the board, then leaned back against his headboard with his fingers laced behind his head. A challenge burned in his gaze.
Smug bastard doesn’t think I’ll do it. He doesn’t think I’m smart enough to play him all out.
Without hesitation, I leaned forward and moved my rook.
His face transformed with unadulterated excitement. Wounded, sweaty, covered in dried blood, and grunting with barely controlled pain, we leaned across our beds and played chess in the moonlight.
An hour later, the game ended in another stalemate.
I would have thrown the board, but it hurt too much to lift my arm.
“Play me again,” Tarantula demanded. Eyes glittering, he reset the board and gestured, even though I never agreed. “Ladies first.”
“What a gentleman,” I said dryly as I moved my pawn. “Not.”
“I was always the most genteel, but my decorum . . . evaporates around thee.” He flushed like he was embarrassed by his admission. “Still, I aim to serve, Ravenal.” Long, graceful fingers flicked out, dragging his pawn forward.
Blood rushing in my ears, vision wavering, I felt each heartbeat as it slammed against my breastbone. “Ha, scoundrels don’t serve. They manipulate.” I focused on the board. “You’re just saying that to trick me.”
“No.” His voice dropped to a silky baritone. “I shall service thee . . . thoroughly.”
I moved another pawn and glanced over; his expression was unreadable.
Stomach twisting, I scooched toward the wall, putting more space between us, wrapping his comforter tighter around myself. His eyes flicked down to it, then back to mine. He wasn’t blinking, again. Dizzy from holding my breath, I turned away from the game and mumbled something about falling asleep.
Darkness swiftly yanked me under.
In the purgatory between dreams, I could feel him still watching me.