It’s the most delicious moment of being unsuspecting, innocent, and so, sobeautiful.
And then I attack.
Both hands clamp the hilt, and I fling his weight off of the shine of my blade. He staggers back, but I keep on going. I don’t pause for a single second as I eat up the space between him and me, and he barely has a single second to react before I swing the cutting edge right back at him.
It misses his bare, sweaty chest with a whisper of air. And that confusion in his eyes turns to erotic fury. The Prince dances with me in a give and take of near fatal dips and dives of our weapons. The danger and the adrenaline of it all exhilarates me as much as it seems to enthrall him.
It’s the strangest happiness two people have ever found in trying to murder one another.
And then, my sword flings forward once more, and the very tip of the weapon scratches over his shoulder.
A gasp of fear and surprise sounds through our audience who I had briefly forgotten. The way no one says a word but echoes their panic in that single gasp drills anxiety all through my chest. I’ve never been apprehensive of harming an opponent before.
But I’ve made a mistake.
In the thrill of the fight, I forgot my place. And I definitely forgot about the man lying dead just yards away, simply because he lost too humbly.
“Cersia,” Roman whispers on a chill of a word that I feel spoken fearfully across my skin even with the span of space separating us.
I am going to die now.
The Prince’s black orbs lift from his slight wound to meet my wide eyes. His chest rises and falls with the effort of our battle still relevant on his face.
I can’t even think in this moment.
The heavy weight of his steps billows clouds of dark smoke around his footfalls, and I’m entranced by the hellish appearance he’s creating all around him. I can’t see anything but this evil man.
He is the last face I’ll ever see before I die.
With one swift move, he brings his arm back, lifting his blade with intent.
Then he tosses it to the side, grabs my neck and drags me against him.
Just as his lips crash down on mine. His kiss consumes the confusion lingering on my tongue, in my chest, in the dark depths of the back of my mind.
It isn’t sweet. It isn’t sexy.
Where his brother kissed me with so much passion, Ravar kisses me with possession. He kisses me like I’m a prop for him to use and abuse, and I know it in the simple way he devours my mouth for his own pleasure. Even as I choke on his tongue.
And he keeps right on going.
My brain catches up, and I force myself to react. I force my hands to push through his hair. I pull just hard enough to hear his groan against my mouth.
I react how I know he expects me to.
How everyone expects me to.
But he tastes like rancid ash. He tastes like a tormentor. Like an abuser. Like a killer.
That’s why I kiss him back too.
Because, in the end, that’s exactly why I’m here—to attract a killer.
So far, so good.
Twelve
The Plot Thickens
