He lifted the blade, pressing its edge gently—almost tenderly—against the delicate skin of her throat. His other hand settled on her shoulder, trying to steady both of them.
“Breathe,” he muttered. “It will be quick.”
She laughed again, bitter and soft. “That’s what she said about the corset.”
The words slipped under his armor like a knife. He thought of the bruises he’d glimpsed on her side. He imagined Liora’s hands on laces, her calm voice asking about dessert while her daughter gasped for air. He thought of Liora’s hands on him, just hours ago, stroking and promising and withholding. Her naked body before him, her naked promises of the throne. His body responded to that last memory with cruel timing. Hunger flared in his blood. The position—they, here, pressed together, blade at her throat—was wrong in every way, and yet his flesh did not care. He could feel her pulse under the knife. He could feel the rise and fall of her back against his chest. He could seethe soft weight of her breast shifting under the torn dress as she breathed.
He took a deep breath, trying to clear his head. He inhaled her. The smell of her sweat. The faint, sharp tang from between her legs, where fear and flight and the confusing flush of womanly desire had mixed.
His hand on her shoulder slid, almost of its own accord, down along her upper arm. The skin there was smooth, warm. Goosebumps rose under his palm.
Snow White took a deep breath—nerves and something else. “What are you doing?” she whispered, not quite a question, not quite a protest.
He swallowed hard. Liora’s voice floated through his mind:You will find her. You will kill her. You will come back to me, and then…Then she had pressed herself against him, naked and gleaming, and left him throbbing and desperate.
Chapter eleven
The Knife’s Edge
SnowWhiteshifted,unintentionallypressing her hips back against him. Hunter’s restraint shredded another inch. The knife’s edge still lay against her throat, a cold, thin reminder of what he was supposed to be doing. His other hand drifted over the curve of her shoulder, the dip of her collarbone, to the torn edge of her bodice. Her clothing had been pulled and ripped in the flight through the forest. One strap had snapped entirely, leaving the rough fabric gaping. The upper swell of her breast was exposed, skin pale and vulnerable. His fingers brushed there.
Snow White froze. The sensation was like nothing she’d ever felt. This was heavy and deliberate and charged with something that made her stomach flip. Fear. Maybe. But something else too. Something that felt like standing too close to a fire—hot, dangerous, but impossible not to reach for. She felt comfortable with Hunter. She had known him all her life. He was almost like an uncle to her in many ways, a young, brave, strong… “Hunter,” she said, her voice thinner now. “What—”
“Don’t speak,” he muttered. “Just… don’t move.” His thumb grazed the curve of her breast, tentative at first, then bolder when she did not flinch away. The rough pad of his finger caught on the sensitive skin of her nipple where it strained against the torn cloth.
A sound—small, unbidden—escaped her throat. The smell between her legs thickened, slick heat spreading low in her belly. Her knees went weaker for an entirely different reason than they had just hours ago. Confusion roared through her. This man had been her closest peer once, her friend, the one who’d lifted her into the saddle and called her “princess” in a tone that hadn’t felt mocking. Now he held a knife to her throat with one hand and cupped her breast with the other, his breath hot against her ear. Old trust warred with new excitement. Somewhere between the two, something wild stirred. Right now, she was shocked to discover that her body felt open, felt excited, and even felt like it truly yearned for his touch to continue.
He doesn't want to do this,she realized. The thought struck her with the force of a blow.He’s not a killer. He’s a man in thrall.And she knew, with a sudden, sharp instinct she hadn’t thought she possessed, that there was only one power greater than Liora’s command. “Hunter,” she whispered. She didn't pull away. Instead, she leanedintohim. The movement was so unexpected that his hand jerked back, pulling the knife a fraction away from her skin. “You're shaking.”
“Stop,” he rasped. “Don't make this harder. You’re confusing me.” At that, the threat of death vanished from her mind, replaced by a thick, suffocating tension. Snow White knew she should run. She should push him and flee; she knew he wouldn’t chase after her. But his body was against her, heavy and warm, and her body—betraying her, twisting her feelings—didn't want to run. She had spent years being invisible. Here, now, under his gaze, she was the center of the universe.
Hunter’s mind flickered like a broken lantern between two images: Liora under him in a darkened room, lips parted as she rode him; Snow White, here and now, in his arms, her body echoing the queen’s at a younger pitch. He called himself every name he could think of in his head. Pervert. Traitor. Beast. But his hand did not stop. The knife stayed at her throat, but its pressure slackened mostly as his grip on reality slipped. He knew he should move it away, apologize, run. “You look so much like her,” he rasped, lips close to her ear. “Do you know that? Her face, her smell. I’ve loved her for so long.”
Snow White’s heart lurched. Of course. Of course, this was about her mother, even now. The tickle of his warm breath on her ear sent a signal to the warmth between her legs. Her yearning grew stronger. “Is that what you see?” she asked, voice shaking. “Her? Not me?”
“Sometimes,” he said honestly. “Sometimes I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.” His hand slid ever so slowly over her breast, fingers spreading to touch as much of her as he could. The rough, calloused palm scraped her nipple through the torn gown, sending a jolt of pleasure straight down her spine. She made another sound.
Her moan made him harden more against her back. She became acutely aware of the difference between them: his size, his strength, the fact that if he chose to, he could snap her like a twig. And yet, in this tangled moment, she realized she had one tiny sliver of power he did not. He wanted her. Badly enough that his hand shook with desire. Badly enough that the knife at her throat wobbled. And she wanted him, too. If she could turn that wanting… If she could bend it away from her death and toward something—anything—else… She swallowed, throat moving against the cold flat of the blade. “Hunter,” she whispered. “You don’t have to kill me.”
He laughed once, harshly. “You think I don’t know that? You think I haven’t told myself that ten times since I left the castle?” His hand tightened on her breast. “But she—she’ll know. She always knows.”
“She promised you something. Didn’t she?”
The tremor that went through him had nothing to do with the morning chill. “She promised,” he admitted, voice rough, “to marry me. To make me king. To give me—” He cut himself off.
“To give you what?” Snow White pressed.
His silence was answer enough. She closed her eyes. Typical. Typical Liora dangling herself like a bone in front of him. Typical that she’d tied his leash to her own body. Jealousy. Anger. Fire. All of it moved through Snow White at once. And under it all, that insistent, traitorous throbbing where his hand moved and his hardness pressed.
This was madness. But madness, she thought suddenly, might be the only thing that she wanted. She reached behind her back, nervously. Her fingers closed over the bulge in his trousers.
He swore softly, the word breaking open on his tongue. “Snow White,” he breathed. “Don’t—”
“If you kill me,” she said quietly, fingers squeezing, “she’ll have you for one night. Maybe two. Maybe until she gets bored again. And then what? Another errand boy. Another blade. Another toy.”
He made a low, animal sound as her hand moved again, uncertain but determined.
“If you let me go,” she went on, emboldened by the way he shuddered, “I promise I’ll never return. And you’ll have me. Here. Now.”
