Stark’s voice carries that familiar edge of mockery, like he thinks I’m stupid for believing he lives like a feral animal when he acts like one. He emerges between two of his towering bookshelves and leans against one of them, arms crossed.
He’s dressed casually. His pants are fighting leathers, but he’s wearing a white short-sleeved shirt on top, his huge arms exposed—as well as the absurd amount of tattoos covering them, from his fingers all the way up, disappearing under the cap sleeves, dark and twisting and runic. I swallow at the visceral reminder of just how many lives he’s taken.
My brain immediately starts assessing him. How far is he from me? Where are his eyes looking? It’s training from the pits, but it’s also just self-preservation, being in the same room as someone like Stark.
Alone, I might add.
I make a show of letting my eyes wander around his office. Most of the books look freshly bound, but there are a few with broken spines and even some that look ancient, those being secured behind glass cases that glint in the lamplight.
When my eyes land on a doorway that leads to an adjoining room—spotting an unmade bed bathed in darkness—I avert them instantly. Does he sleep here? Surely he has a private roomoff of the Daemos quarters, just like Egith and I do. Or maybe that bed’s for something other than sleeping…
Another image I don’t need.
“This is a lot of books, hoarder,” I say, ignoring the heat in my face. Even Leader Aldrich’s library pales in comparison. I’ve never seen this many in one place before.
The thought comes to me unbidden:Saela would love this. It’s followed by an immediate ache in my chest.
Stark doesn’t move from his spot, but his eyes roam. Over his books, at first. Then over me.
I feel it again. That same thing I always do, looking at him. Being looked at by him.
It’s a challenge, like he believes he owns the world but wants to see me try to take it from him. “Did you think being Alpha just meantfightingwell?”
I grind my teeth briefly. My skin prickles, meeting his dark eyes. The challenge simmering in the air is tempting. I sort of want to tear him apart. But ultimately, Iamhere for a reason. A good one.
“That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? Because I don’t know what being Alpha means,” I reply. “Or so I’ve been told. Repeatedly.”
Stark pushes off of the shelf and approaches, arms falling to his sides. To anyone else, it would have looked almost lazy. Relaxed. His muscles are loose and his stride slow. But his eyes are sharper than they were a moment ago.
I don’t think Stark is capable of relaxation.
“And you listen to everything you’re told, princess?” he says, a dangerous edge in his tone.
“Religiously,” I deadpan, lifting my chin to show him that his height doesn’t scare me.
“Then block,” he says.
I don’t even fully process his words before my body snaps into motion. His eyes cut downward, his arm whipping towardsmy face with impossible speed. The flat of a fist flashes in my vision as muscle memory yanks me out of the way.
He’s not like any of the opponents I fought in the pits. He’s taller, stronger, faster. But more importantly, he’s coldly merciless.
Fearless.
I try to rotate my body, shifting my feet, but I’m too slow.
His second blow cracks against my ribs.
Pain explodes through my left side as I stumble back, shoulder slamming into one of the shelves. I clutch my side, trying to catch my breath.
It was a hard hit. I’m only lucky that he’s backing away instead of ripping a book from the shelf and knocking me out with it.
“Wh…” I wheeze, still winded.
“In your defense, you did as you were told,” he says, raising a brow. “Initially.”
“Youf—” The expletive turns into an angry, strangled growling sound. It’s probably best not to curse him out.
This place looks harmless, but there could still be a cellar under the sparring square where he keeps his collection of eyeballs and teeth. The fucker.
