You always have a choice,my mother said on the bench beside me.Certain things, no one can take from you.
Gods, I wanted her back. I would do anything to see her one more time. But all I had now was the journal and my memories.
Now wasn’t the time for this. Right now, I had leverage.
I lifted my eyes to Dorian. He hadn’t moved, but his dark gaze shifted from the water to me as though he’d been waiting.
“You killed my family. Everyone I love. I badly want to kill you,” I said. “I’ve wanted that since the moment I saw you sitting on the bench of that wagon.”
His lips twitched, but he didn’t speak. He gestured for me to go on.
“But I can’t kill you,” I said. “You’re three times stronger than me and twice as fast, and you’ve kidnapped me to this place.” I turned fully toward him. “And now you’re bound to me, and I to you.”
“And?”
“And”—I paused, let it hang—“that means you aren’t the only one with power, Dorian.”
A noise rumbled from his throat. Not a chuckle, not a scoff; somewhere in between. “The human is sadistic.”
“The human is pragmatic.” I stood, staring down at him. I liked us at this angle. “Now I can end your life as I can end my own.”
His gaze lifted, eyes shifting between mine as though seeking out uncertainty. He must have found nothing, because he said, “A wonderful start to a partnership.”
My fingers feathered over the pouch where my knife sat on my belt; I knew he saw it. “And I’m done with rabbits and pettifeys. Call me either, and I swear I’ll cut deeper next time. Even if it has to be into my own neck.”
Something unreadable flickered through his hazel eyes. Not surprise. Not fear. Interest, maybe. As if he’d misjudged the shape of me. The ghost of a smile touched his mouth; so small, I might have imagined it.
“Fine.” He nodded toward the knife at my belt. “Go ahead. Prick yourself,rabbit.”
I didn’t wait. The blade flashed as I drew it free, swicked to place. I upturned my palm, eyes locked on his, and drove the tip straight into my heart line. The pain was immediate, sharp, but my attention stayed on his face.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t move.
Then, slowly, he raised his palm to face me. Not a drop of blood. Now he did smile, small, smug. “Doesn’t work like that.” His head tilted. “But it’s good to know you’re a woman who keeps her promises.”
Blood welled in my hand, dripping to the grass. I curled my fingers against the flow. Against the throbbing pain. I closed the knife with a jerk of my other hand.
Shame pricked harder than the wound. I felt foolish, which made the wound hurt even more. But I had learned something at least: our bond didn’t answer to scratches.
Only death.
“That would be a terrible curse, wouldn’t it?” His gaze tracked the red drops. “Like two halves of a single body.”
I stood facing him, knife in hand. “What I said still stands.”
“About cutting deeper?”
My grip tightened. “Deeper every time.”
He stood, and the two of us were close. Close enough his scent brushed over me. The sharp resin of woodsmoke, undercut with something deeper. An earthiness and the faint, unmistakable trace of something that was his alone.
He stood close enough that I had to lift my chin to meet eyes. I didn’t—wouldn’t—move as he neared.
He held my gaze and said, “When you bluff, your eyebrows lift at the center.”
Motherf—
“Nonetheless, I’ll never mock you again.” He didn’t smile this time. His face was perfectly serious. “I swear it.”
