Yes, yes, Nonno. I’m here to murder the asshole, not passive-aggressively insult him.
“Anyway . . . I’m starving. What’s for supper?” I barrel ahead of Justus who’s become one with the black wood at his back.
I start to pull out the last chair when Dante leans over the table and flicks open the top of the wooden box, revealing a small mound of translucent crystals. “Salt.”
So this is no meal; this is an interrogation. Since I’m not affected by the condiment, I assume the salt will be for Antoni. Which does make me wonder why I was convened . . .
“Ungag the prisoner.” Dante pushes away from the table as though to get up, except he doesn’t.
The vine binding Antoni’s mouth dematerializes into sparkling green magic. My friend gags and swallows a great many times, then swipes his tongue over his mouth.
His mouth whose corners bleed.
The sight of his blood hardens my stomach and amplifies my rage. Out of the corner of my twitching eye, I stare at the bed, calculating my odds of grabbing the dagger and plunging the blade into Dante’s neck before the soldiers, who funneled into the room behind me, can intercept me with their magic.
The optimist in me tiptoes back because my odds are dismal. And then the optimist freezes because I catch Dante’s tapered stare and the slow smile that curls his full lips.
I pray that it’s my annoyance that causes him pleasure and not an awareness of Justus’s ploy.
Twenty-One
“Sit, moya.”
My heart has scaled up the length of my throat and batters the skin at its base with such force that every Faerie in attendance can no doubt hear its manic tempo. I yank on the chair so hard that its feet screech atop the black stone.
“Fal-lon,” Dante singsongs my name. “I meanthere.”
When he pats his lap, I clasp the rungs of the chair with such vigor that I threaten to splinter my phalanxes.
I glance toward Justus, wishing he’d intervene, but he’s wholly focused on the back of Antoni’s head. I try to call to him with my eyes, but he either doesn’t feel my attention or is trying to avoid it.
“Rossi, I believe Fallon will need some coaxing. I know we’ve done away with Antoni’s nails, but his fingers are still attached, are they not?”
My heart lurches in time with my body. “No. I’m coming.” I ball my fingers into fists as I circumvent Antoni’s chair.
My friend swivels his head, wild gaze trailing me.
When I reach the Faerie King, I stare with revulsion at the crisp white fabric of his pants that stretches over his thickened thigh muscles.
“My lap, or his fingers. What’ll it be, moya?”
Gods, I hate when he calls me wife, and he knows it, which is undoubtedly why he insists on exploiting the term.
I perch on his knee, keeping my weight into my feet in order to put as little contact as necessary between our bodies. Dante snags my waist and drags me farther back.
“Why make me sit on your lap when there’s a perfectly nice and empty chair?” My jammed molars make my question come out no louder than a murmur.
Dante moves his mouth nearer to my ear, and although his breath is no longer rank, I still shudder. “Because I can.” He flattens his palm against my stomach with such force that I can almost feel the shape of his fingers imprint on the spine I’m so desperately trying to keep straight.
“You can what? Humiliate me?”
“I made you sit on my legs, not kneel between them.”
“Only because you fear my teeth.” I hope he knows that if he tries to shove his cock into my face, I will sever the appendage. Sure, it would grow back, but not his pride.
His posture stiffens, but thankfully, no other part of his anatomy follows suit. Then again, I did casually mention I’d shorten his manhood, so odds are in my favor that it’ll make itself tiny for the duration of the evening.
He fists my hair and hauls my head back with such enthusiasm that my neck cracks. “You’re really not in a position to issue threats, Fal.”
