And he reached for the thermos and brought it to his nose to sniff it.
The act was odd and animal-like.
“It’s not poisoned,” I assured him, flashing an innocent smile.
The one word hung in the air as though he didn’t believe me. Then his eyes squinted, sweat dotting along his hairline as the fire left a glaze across his paling chest. His muscles tensed when he pushed the thermos into my lap. “I am more than capable of fetching my own food.”
The soup spilled over the rim and stained my dress.
One that I’d sewn when Mom stopped talking. I’d designed and created it to deflect her decline.
The scorching liquid burned my skin, its contents like fire eating my fingers, hand, and wrist. To prevent all emotions from reviving, I clenched my fists hard.
Stone watched me carefully. So, I stretched out my fingers as though he hadn’t affected me. I screwed the cap back on, anger finding its way inside me and distracting the painful burns.
All I’d done was save him—a stranger—which had been a colossal risk using my magic at all. If he only knew the lengths I’d gone for him.
I bristled. “After everything, you don’t trust me.”
Stone moved back, throwing more space between us. “Evil is often wrapped in all things I can only hope to see. In the end, someone like you doesn’t happen to someone like me.” His eyes settled. “I can’t trust anyone, mostly you.”
All that I’d imagined him to be left my mind, and what was left was the thought of the very witch-hating monster Augustine Pruitt was protecting us from. A murdering spy with the intention of burning our town to the ground with us in it.
With a quick hand, I pulled the dagger from my pocket and held the blade to his neck.
Stone didn’t flinch, and our lips were only inches apart, two enemies sharing the same breath.
“Who are you?” I asked through my teeth.
He didn’t answer. The blade’s sharp edge skimmed his dampened neck, and the apple in Stone’s throat bobbed when he swallowed. I tightened my hold on the handle, my eyes turning to slits. “How did you find Weeping Hollow?”
Stone picked his head off the wall, and the blade cut into his neck.
“Tell me,” he said, his icy breath hitting my lips. “Does holding a knife to the throat of a man who is in no position to defend himself make you feel powerful?”
It felt like nine-inch nails lined my throat.
Scratchy, dry, and hard to swallow.
I couldn’t find anything sensible to say. Words were lost on me.
The air around us thinned, and he stretched his neck like an offering, testing me, unafraid.
Lena was already dead the moment Augustine threw her into the cell.
This was different. And he was mine.
Could I still go through with it? Could I slit this man’s throat if I had to? No one would ever know, and I’d imagined this moment with Kane so many times.
My eyes bounced between his, and before I had a chance to understand how much wickedness possessed me, Stone’s fingers curled around the sharp end of the blade, his jaw flexing.
Jagged teeth sliced his palm when he ripped the knife from my fist.
He held the blade between us, thick red blood weeping down his wrist and forearm like wet paint. “If you are to slit someone’s throat, ensure the correct side is facing accordingly.” He turned the blade for me to see, then slammed it down at his side.
My shoulders tensed as I stared at the blood-painted blade in the sand.
Then Stone’s woolly and warm voice stole back my attention.
