Chapter 16 #3
over my mouth, unsure if I’m holding in angry words, angry tears, or vomit. “Get out, Hux,” I whisper.
He’s still frozen with the remote aimed at the screens, so I walk over and bodily shove him toward the door.
Hux catches himself on the jamb. “Stop, Ripley. Let me check and make sure there aren’t more cameras in here. I made sure
that nothing was transmitting, but that was true on the sub.”
I stop pushing him, new panic seizing me. The idea of being filmed without knowing makes me feel like tearing off my own skin.
At Hux’s panicked expression, though, a cold laugh sneaks out of me. “Oh, I see. I’m already too far gone. But you? Are you
worried about your secret identity, Huxley Finn? Your reputation as the perfect little general? Because if you were the one
to out the Machs—”
“I NEVER WANTED YOU IN THIS!” Hux yells, his face wild, and I startle backward. He’s not being careful. Anyone could hear
him. “I wanted you out of this,” he continues, his voice a growl. “I tried to get you out of this. You’ve been a pain in my ass since you got dragged into this and inserted yourself into Prince Charming’s life. My goal was simple. My target was
clear. And now? It’s not. Now? I’m dealing with a deep-sea make-out scandal when there are people dying on the eastern front. So let me be clear: I want to check for cameras in this room because, believe it or not, if anyone
filmed you in this bedroom without your consent, I’d kill them with my bare hands and not for one precious second worry about
my soul.”
His body vibrates with rage as he gets closer to me, but I don’t step back.
“Get out, Hux,” I find myself repeating. “I’ll check myself.” It’s foolhardy—I don’t even know what I’d be looking for. But
I know I can’t have him here anymore.
He’s halfway gone, after all. I just have to get him across the doorway.
I thrust a hand into his chest, but he grabs it before I make contact.
I use the other, and he snares that one too.
Rage rushes through me. Stupid, emotional, powerless Ripley.
The president’s propaganda princess. The nation’s breeding vessel.
An object of lust to be undressed on a million screens. Always someone else’s, never her own.
Hux can hold me as tight as he wants, but I won’t stop fighting. I pivot, using a move I know well from training to leverage
his own weight against him. He goes down like a stone, but he’s quick—he uses his momentum, rolling and taking me with him.
We fall to the floor in a tangle of limbs, a tumble of curses, unsure who’s screaming what. I shift, pulling myself on top
of him, straddling him and using my hips to thrust him into the carpet.
He tries to shove himself up, fumbling against my thigh for a handhold, but I slip the knife from his holster and spin it
expertly in one hand. There’s a moment, where the dread catches in his eyes, before I’m pressing it to his throat. With that,
Hux goes still. And then he bares his neck, leaning back on his elbows, his eyes burning into mine.
“One question,” he says, swallowing. The motion of his throat juts the knife up, and I hear it nick against his scruff.
“I don’t think you’re in the position to be asking questions.”
“I was just wondering . . . for the fans at home . . . do you recommend this brand of blade for a new bride to use on her nemesis?” he asks, his voice careful.
I let out a huff, the tension still thick but lessened slightly at the joke. At least Hux gets it; he gives me a thin smile,
splayed out under me, and I find myself withdrawing the blade.
“Any ol’ knife will do,” I retort as he massages his throat. “All that matters is the nemesis is completely at that new bride’s
mercy.”
Hux moves so fast I don’t see his hands, only feel them on my shoulders as he leverages me around. In his hands, despite the
years of training and the pounds of muscle, I feel like a rag doll. When the world settles, I’m caught against the doorframe,
Hux’s knee between my legs, pinning me up in the air as his hands press my spine into the wood.
“Looks like our princess needs more training,” he coos.
But with his hands busy holding me up, I still have the knife. With a grunt, I press down. A thin line of blood pools against
his neck.
Why am I looking at his lips now? Why do I watch, with my heart in my throat, as his tongue darts out to moisten his mouth?
I drop the knife, and Hux loosens his grip until I slide down to the floor with a cough.
Then, I remember myself. I scramble into the bathroom, slamming the door. For good measure, I throw the lock and lean against it.
My whole body is buzzing.
Why would he do that? It would make sense that he’s trying to undercut my relationship with Callum. Or throw me off my footing.
Or . . .
I turn around, fingers grasping for the door handle. I yank the bathroom door open, the yellow light slicing across the blackness
and illuminating where I’d left him.
But the room is empty.
I open Dracula, ready to disappear into another world. And from between the pages, something buttery yellow falls out into my lap.
The poker chip.