“Try to break away,” he says calmly, like he doesn’t have me bent to his will, sputtering like a hissing cat.
I struggle, but I realize very quickly that I can’t straighten up because he’s too strong, holding me too firmly. I can’t lean forward either, because I’d just land on my face. I can’t even get my arms out of his hold with the way he’s gripping me. My ribbons tense and swivel at my spine like snakes provoked, wanting to lunge and bite. I grit my teeth, hold them back, keep them wrapped.
“I can’t.”
Rip clicks his tongue in disapproval.
A second later, I’m released. My steps stumble, barely keeping me upright with his sudden departure. When I look up, he’s already in front of me again, ready and cocky. I glare at him, shoving hair out of my face, while he stands there with brooding cockiness. The ends of my ribbons trill.
“Try and hit me,” he says.
He certainly doesn’t have to talk me into it.
I rush forward with balled fists. I don’t even know what I’m going to try to hit, but I suppose smacking the smug look off his face would be a good place to start.
Before I can even raise my hand, I’m spun around, legs knocked out from under me, cheek shoved against the ground. “You know you won’t hit me like that,” he says with mirth.
Spitting mad, I try to roll, but his knee lands against my spine, pinning me in place. White-hot anger courses through me, because not only is this humiliating, but that alsohurt, dammit.
“Get off!”
“Make me,” he counters.
Did I think he was beautiful before? I take it all back. He’s an ugly bastard.
My legs kick, hips buck, but it does nothing. His knee digs in harder against my spine with every failed attempt to knock him away. I’m growing angrier and angrier with every panted breath, my body refusing to stop moving but too weak to break free.
“Stop holding back,” Rip orders, tone suddenly stern. “You know what you need to do. If you want to get out of the circle, you have to actually put up a fight.”
My cheek burns where it’s pressed against the snow, but my anger burns hotter. “I’m trying!”
“No, you’re not,” he growls above me. “Listen to your instincts andstop holding back.”
I go still beneath him, suddenly realizing what he wants. “I can’t use my ribbons.”
“Why not?”
Why? Because Midas wouldn’t want me to. Because I have to keep them hidden. I have to keepeverythinghidden.
Like he heard my errant thought, Rip makes a noise of disgust. He releases me, the painful knee blessedly gone from my spine. I manage to get my hands and knees under me so that I can stand, snow stuck to my face and hair, my dress wet, my mood incensed.
He glares at me, making me feel so much smaller, so weak and insignificant. His breath is still slow and even, like knocking me down took absolutely no effort.
“Why do you keep hiding what you are?” he demands, anger shading his features, making the slash of gray scales over his cheeks seem darker.
“You know why,” I say bitterly.
He, of all people, should understand. Maybe that’s why he pisses me off so much. Some part of me feels like he should be an ally.
“No, I don’t,” he retorts. “Enlighten me.”
I silently fume, daggers tossed between our glares. My ribbons start pinching my skin, little nips that tell me they don’t appreciate being held back while Rip so openly provokes me.
“They’re a secret,” I finally say. “Mysecret.”
But he shakes his head. “It’s more than that. I already know about your ribbons—that they can move. You hold back because you’re ashamed of them.”
My eyes flare, spine going rigid. He struck a chord, a sour note that clangs through my ears and echoes in the hollow cavity of my chest.
