I feel them lengthen against my lower lip, predator's teeth responding to prey that refuses to act appropriately threatened. The transformation triggers secondary changes—pupils dilating, senses sharpening, the particular readiness that comes from vampire nature recognizing a situation where feeding might become necessary. The knife presses harder, sharp edge now pinching at flesh that should be showing more concern about its continued integrity.
"Royal to royal wouldn't necessarily cause war between quarreling lovers," he continues, apparently unbothered by the blade at his throat. His voice remains conversational, almost playful, as if we're discussing weather rather than potential assassination. "Though I do love the enemies-to-lovers trope in books these days. Wouldn't that make our love story more romantic?"
A hiss escapes me—low, warning, the particular sound vampires make when patience has worn thin and violence hovers on the horizon.
He seems delighted by the response.
"Ah, yes." His head tilts slightly despite the knife's pressure, eyes meeting mine with knowing that makes my skin prickle. "You probably don't appreciate being hungry while dealing with individuals you've never been formally introduced to, yet find yourself bonded with."
The observation lands with accuracy that stings.
"How rude of me."
His smirk grows as he leans forward.
The motion forces a choice—maintain the blade's threatening pressure and actually cut him, or adjust to preserve the threat of violence without committing to its reality. My hand moves before my mind finishes the calculation, tilting the knife just enough to preserve his skin while he invades my space with deliberate provocation.
His grin widens at my accommodation.
Bastard.
He did that on purpose.
Tested whether I'd actually hurt him, and watched me prove I wouldn't.
"Your mind would love to slay me," he whispers, close enough now that I can feel his breath against my cheek. The intimacy is unwelcome and electric, my body responding to his proximity in ways that have nothing to do with intellectual approval. "But your heart—that delicate, treacherous heart of yours—has always known better."
His eyes hold mine with intensity that threatens to drown.
"No wonder it hid the chalice so perfectly in plain sight."
The mention of the artifact sends ice through my veins.
He knows.
He knows about the chalice, about my heart being its hiding place, about secrets I barely understand myself.
His chuckle vibrates through the air between us, low and rich and infuriatingly attractive. The sound does something to my insides that I refuse to acknowledge—warmth pooling in places that have no business responding to this arrogant stranger regardless of whatever bond mark decorates my forehead.
"I'd gladly be cut by the woman destined to be mine," he continues, voice dropping to registers that feel like physical touch against my skin. "But that would remind your body how low your blood reserves are..."
He trails off deliberately, letting the implication hang between us like fruit waiting to be plucked.
"And well." That smirk again, sharper now, edged with suggestion that makes heat climb my cheeks and throat. "This feast of a breakfast would turn rather frisky, if you know what I mean."
Frisky.
He's suggesting that cutting him would trigger my blood hunger, which would lead to feeding, which would lead to...
I narrow my eyes further, knowing the crimson bleed of vampire hunger now stains what should be silver irises. The transformation only seems to please him more, his gaze tracking the color change with obvious appreciation.
"Which I have no problem with in that department," he adds, tone carrying promises that make my throat tight and my pulse race despite my attempts at maintaining composure. "But I do love a woman I can fight for before I finally have her between the sheets."
"I hate you."
The words escape before I can stop them—raw, honest, carrying frustration that extends beyond this moment to encompass everything about my current situation. The mysterious bonds, the unexplained transformations, the way my body refuses to cooperate with my mind's very reasonable objections to this entire interaction.
I pull the knife away, spinning it between my fingers with dexterity born from years of training. The motion is meant to demonstrate capability, to remind him that my restraint is a choice rather than a limitation.
