“You’re dead,” he whispers in my ear. He has my own blade pointed at my side, but he doesn’t take the point.
I don’t know what makes me do it. I don’t know if it’s something about his magic or the proximity or my desperation or the way that looks at me or the way flirting with Soren made me feel.
But I see my opportunity, and I go for it.
I shift my hips to meet his.He’s rock hard. I rub myself against him, lightly, just once.
He inhales sharply in surprise.
Then I snatch the blade from his hand.
I jump back and land the point directly on his heart.
“No, you are.”
Chapter Twelve
It takes a moment for him to compose himself. He’s frozen there in front of me, vulnerable at the end of my blunted blade, his eyes running from my sword to my lips to my hips and back.
Oh, I’ve won alright.
He looks like he’s seriously considering tossing the sword to the side and taking me in his arms.
But he controls himself, his mouth twitching as he backs away, laughing. “Well done.”
I lower the sword and give him a little bow. I try not to think too much of the feeling of him hard against me, of how satisfying it was to hear his little gasp of surprise.
Of the way my body stirred in response.
Of the way it pulses with warmth to see him smiling and clapping for me.
All part of the plan, I tell myself. It’s the plan and nothing more.
Off to the side, someone clears their throat.
It’s Taran. He must have arrived at some point during our last exchange.
My mood shifts instantly, and I know Ronan can sense it because he asks, “Something wrong?”
“You know what’s wrong. I don’t understand how you can have someone like that as your guard.”
After everything his people have done to mine. To parade an Orsan around us.
It’s insulting.
“Someone like what, exactly?” says Ronan. He quickly puts his shirt back on, and I do the same with my armor.
“Someone like him. He’s Orsan.” As I say the words, I hear how dangerously close they sound to what Quinn was saying about us.
But it’s different. We’re the victims of them both: the Orsa and the Selarans. It makes sense for us to hate them.
Ronan’s lips press into a thin line. He draws himself up into his full regal posture and crosses back to me.
He towers over me.
“What do you even know about the Orsa?” he asks, an accusation in his voice.
What do I know? Is he kidding?
