“Here,” he says.
I take it, the metal cool against my palm. Before I can adjust my grip, his hand covers mine. His skin is rough, warm, and calloused. He closes my fingers tighter around the hilt.
“If someone grabs you,” he says and presses the flat of the blade against his own torso.
“You don’t go for the chest. Too many ribs. You gohere.” He drags the tip slowly to the space just under his ribs, the motion precise, clinical.
“Or here.” He slides the blade up to his neck, touching the side just below his jawline, right where his pulse beats.
The sight makes my breath hitch.
“Soft spot. Quick and quiet. It’s over before they know it started.”
He lowers the blade and slides it back into the holster on my thigh without breaking eye contact.
“Don’t think, don’t warn, don’t look.”
“That easy?” I whisper, my voice quieter than I meant.
“No,” he says. “It’s never easy. But it works.” He straightens and for a heartbeat, the air between us doesn’t move.
“You don’t wait for someone to save you, Kiara,” he adds, voice dropping lower. “Promise me, you end it before it starts.”
His expression is unreadable.
“Promise you?” My voice cracks, panic slipping through before I can stop it.
He just nods.
“So, you don’t tell me anything, you keep me in the dark about whatever your plans are with me, and now you just hand me a dagger and expect me to become a killer?”
He doesn’t move, only his eyes soften.
“I don’t expect anything from you.”
The words hit harder than they should.
I hate him for how calm he sounds. For how easily he builds walls I’ll never climb.
He steps back and picks up his glass, as if the room hadn’t just turned into a slow-burning fire. I breathe out only when he takes the first sip.
“The dress will be altered and delivered tomorrow before the ball.” He pauses. “You can take them off now.” He stares at me and my lips part.
I want them off.
But I’m not sure if it’s the anger burning my skin, or him.
I close my mouth and turn around, heading to the fitting room. Even as I walk away, I can feel his gaze on my back.
I change back to my original outfit and put the dagger in my coat pocket. When I come back, he is already handing me my helmet.
We are quiet in the elevator, but the air is heavy and I can’t breathe. His presence, but without the possibility of holding him, is eating me from the inside. I don’t want to go back to the manor. Not like this, not with him standing inches away, and still feeling miles out of reach.
I can’t stop my stubbornness, and I just jump onto the motorcycle before he gets to it, turn to him and reach up to lift his visor, same as mine. His green eyes freeze on mine in confusion.
“I wanna drive,” I say boldly. “Show me.”
We stay still for a second but then—did he just smile?
