"It wasn't a compliment," she says, and I realize she's not fucking around.
The fog clears from my brain a bit more. This isn't a dream. She's really here, really sitting on my chest with a very real knife. And I'm still in Geo's fucking shithole underground.
"I'm going to ask you a question," Cosima continues, her voice dropping to something nearly intimate. "And you'd better fucking give me the truth, because I'm not in a mood to be lied to."
The profanity sounds strange in her cultured voice, like hearing a church choir suddenly break into a drinking song. But it suits her, somehow. Especially with that familiar accent we share growing thick and lush on her tongue.
"What do you want to know?" I ask, genuinely curious beneath the dull throb of pain radiating from my back.
Her eyes narrow, searching my face. "Did you know who Azarel was?" she asks in Vrissian.
I raise an eyebrow. "What, your mate?" I ask, switching to our mother tongue as well. A small, bitter snort escapes me. "I figured, considering you mutter his name in your sleep."
Her eyes flash, violet fire that burns right through me. She seems to be searching my face for deception.
"That's all?" she presses. "Nothing else about who he is or where he's from? You're a mercenary. You must hear things. Know things."
What is she getting at?
"I don't know shit about Azarel," I say firmly, watching her reaction carefully. "But if the asshole managed to put you in such a bad mood when he's not even here, perhaps you should consider getting a new boyfriend." I can't resist adding, "At least the metal monster doesn't piss you off this much."
The knife digs in, just enough to let me know she's not amused. But I've been threatened by worse. The issue is making sure I don't hurt her while I disarm her, but my opportunity presents itself soon enough.
With one quick motion, I shift our positions, flipping her onto her back and pinning her wrists to the bed. The knife falls from her hand and bounces off the bed, clattering to the floor.
She looks shocked for a second, eyes wide, lips parted. But then I see something in her eyes that feels like a punch to the gut.
Not fear.
Acceptance.
Like she was expecting this all along. Waiting for the mask to drop, for the monster to show its true face. How many alphas have hurt her like that? Used their strength against her?
The thought stirs a fire in my chest that makes the fever that was raging through my veins recently seem frosty in comparison, and I have to swallow the growl building in my throat.
"I lied," I mutter, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. "Idoknow something about Azarel."
Hurt and realization flash in her eyes, but I'm not finished.
"If he let you fall into the Ghosts' hands, and whatever else has happened to made you think every alpha you encounter is going to fuck you over in one way or another, he's useless." My voice drops to a growl. "Completelyfucking useless."
Fury erupts across her face, color flooding her cheeks. "You don't know shit," she spits, struggling against my grip.
I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "I'm an alpha," I remind her, loosening my hold on her wrists enough to show I'm not trying to hurt her. "I may be an absolute scumbag, but I'd die before I let someone else touch my omega. Hurt her."
I start to get off her, not wanting to linger in this position any longer than necessary and prove all her assumptions right. But her hands catch my wrists, pulling me back. And then her lips are on mine, hot and demanding.
I freeze, not expecting that, but instinct takes over and I return the kiss, desperate and hungry. Her taste explodes across my tongue, sweet, sinful moonlight, and something inside me roars in triumph.
But it's not right.
Something about this is wrong.
I'm the one who breaks away, pulling back enough to see her face. Her lips are swollen, her eyes wild, her hair a silver halo against the pillow.
"What's wrong?" she demands, voice ragged. "I see the way you look at me. You've wanted to fuck me from the moment we met."
I don't deny it. Can't deny it. But... "Not here," I mutter, running a hand through my hair. "Not like this."
