Bearing hips?
Gross.
The three of them nod dickishly in unison.
“No underwear too,” Roman adds to my list with another exaggerated I’m-A-Fucking-Tool nod.
When his gaze catches mine again, he winks and I my fist flexes instinctively until my nails are biting into my palm. It’s like his pretty perfectly aligned nose has forgotten the last time it met my fist.
How quickly they forget.
“Panties or no panties. How can you tell the difference?” Avian asks.
“It’s a panty intuition. You wouldn’t get it,” Roman says without hesitation and without breaking that fuck-you eye contact with me.
Panty. Intuition.
Give me a fucking break.
I glare at his obnoxiously pretty face. Him and his besties are a happy little triad of stupidity. And I’m just the voyeuristic idiot watching as they thoroughly fuck me into another bad idea.
“Maybe I should forgo the clothes entirely,” I suggest with a shrug.
“That might help, really.” Roman’s eat-shit smile is so taunting it’s infuriatingly.
It’s a nice reminder that I still hate him.
Intensely.
“Ya know, I’ll figure out how to get the petty attention of a Prince myself. I don’t need your puppy clicker training on how to make a man notice me. Thanks.” I’m walking away while they’re mumbling between dramatic sex noises about how women are oblivious to what menreallywant.
Like it’s hard.
ELEVEN
DUELING SEDUCTION
Zilo explainsto me that the Prince of Hell has a very elaborate morning schedule:
Fucking.
Eating.
Dueling.
Wow, maybe I should be taking notes on that complicated agenda.
And that’s why I’m lingering in the shadows of the dueling arena for his guard to take the final blow and bow out of the current match Prince Ravar is kicking his ass in. Finally—fucking finally—the guard takes a hard fall to the black soot, puffs of glittering dirt fanning up around him.
And he doesn’t get up as the Prince pins his shining onyx blade to the center of the stocky man’s burly throat.
“Good move, my Prince,” the guard comments respectfully.
A sheen of sweat trickles down his dirty brow as he holds his Prince’s stare. He swallows slowly but the blade never moves. The Prince’s smile is a cutting thing. Almost as sharp as his weapon. It should signal what comes next. But it doesn’t.
The blade hauls straight back, and with as much force as he can muster, Prince Ravar rails the metal clean through the man’s chest.
An empty breath is the only sound as the dozens of spectators watch their leader murder his own guard right before their eyes. The man’s gaze is big and terrified as he clings to the blade impaling him, and he stares up at the one person who should have his best interest at heart.
