Hazel turned her head, not wanting to shrink in his presence but unable to meet his intensity. Her locketburned, but she didn’t budge.
“Little witch, little witch, let me in,” he growled. His shadows caressed her cheek, gently pushing her to face him.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked, her voice betraying her feigned confidence as it wavered.
His free hand hovered below her chin, near her collarbone; his eyes devoured hers. “What doyouthink I’m doing?”
“Being obtuse, obviously,” Hazel retorted.
He smirked down at her. “You’re fascinating, Hazel. Since the moment we crossed paths in your town, you’ve wanted nothing more than to hate my guts—rightfully so, I might add. But look at you now, backed into the very corner you probably swore you’d never find yourself in. And yet, you don’t tremble.”
“I’m not scared.”
His eyes traced the column of her throat, where her fluttering pulse betrayed her anticipation. A wicked smile curved his mouth.
“Oh, I doubt that very much, little witch. You’re very scared. And you should be.” He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes. When he opened them, they were no longer those molten amber pools. They were endless pits of darkness—the eyes of a hunter.
“Do you know what I like about you?” His voice grew gravelly, so low it made the hairs on her arms stand on end.
She wouldn’t dignify that with a response. There was nothing he could or should like about her. They barely knew one another, and by nature alone they were enemies.
He grinned again, making Hazel wonder if she’d said those things aloud. Perhaps her silence said enough.
“It’s the way you glare at me, as though you’d burn me to ash with a single look if you could.” He brought his face closer to hers, his dark eyes searching as they flitted back and forth.
“You make me want to test you,” he continued as mischief danced across his face, “physically and mentally. I want to explore what makes you tick and learn what sounds you make when you’re unable to utter a single coherent word.”
She swallowed hard, and her core betrayed her stubbornness at his velvet-wrapped words. Warmth spread throughout her body, forcing her to shove down the intrusive thoughts creeping in. To ignore how caged in she was by his body.
“I wonder how long I can hover here, tempting you with what you desire but can’t have? Close enough to steal your breath, but never quite giving you what you want?”
“There is absolutely nothing you have that I want.”Liar, liar.In reality, it was a good thing the library had been cleared out, because she was going to combust.
“Oh, I know. That’s what makes this so much more fun. But mark my words, sweets. When I do take what I want, and I will,” he brushed his thumb across her lower lip, “you’ll already be begging for it.”
Hazel locked her knees or else they would have buckled.Fuck, he’s good.She reined in her focus, refusing to give him another ounce of satisfaction.
Slaide had the audacity to wink at her before pushing off the bookcase and turning his back on her.
“Come with me, little witch. The way out is right over here,” he said, his voice aloft with sinful satisfaction. He gestured over his shoulder for her to follow.
And as she obeyed just one command, Hazel’s throat bobbed, suddenly hyper-aware that she was at his mercy in more ways than she cared to admit.
DANCE LESSONS
In the following days, Hazel attended her dance lessons. To her surprise, they were quite literally dance lessons; it hadn’t been quirky phrasing for swordsmanship or hand combat.
And while she cooperated, she didn’t understand the necessity—unless one of the trials was a dance-off. Though, that was unlikely. Sure, there was to be a celebratory ball at the end of all this, but she had to make it through the trials to see it. If she was dead, no one would ever know she had two left feet and tripped more often when she was nervous.
Pimley, though kind, was vigorous and exacting in his expectations. His demeanor was gentle, though not to be confused with softness. He was not one for breaks and took no pity on her when she was exhausted, claiming she’d get no such reprieve on the battlefield.
Battlefield? Maybe the old man was going mad. Or perhaps it had been a simple slip of the tongue, and he’d meant “ballroom” or “dance floor.”
“No,” he spoke as he wrapped her ankles in a tight, stretchy cloth. “I meant battlefield.”
Her shock must have been obvious on her face, for Pimley simply smiled and said, “No, I don’t read minds. But I thinkyou’ll find the ballroom and the battlefield have a few things in common. Minus the bloodshed… ideally.”
As usual, she was left with more questions than answers.
