His frown deepens, his gaze snapping across my features. “What?”
“If you kill me, I’m dragon meat, as in dead. No magical island to refuse to let me die.”
A shadow falls over his face, and his features harden even more. “It’s part of the ritual.”
“Sorry to burst your bubble, but I don’t know anything about a ritual, pal.”
“Do not call me pal.”
“Buddy.”
“Stop.”
“Pampered prince?”
He growls. I barely have the time to register his movement before he’s shoving closer. A strange little thrill slithers up my spine at the sound. At thenearness.
My lips curve and he gets louder. Angrier. And I can’t help it.
I laugh.
I laugh so hard tears fill my eyes and I cover my mouth with my hand, watching and wondering if he might actually—I don’t know—explode into a big puff of demonic smoke or some shit.
Eventually, he’s had enough of me. Long fingers wrap around my throat, and my back hits the wall.
His breath is hot against my skin and there’s that smell again. Only it’s stronger, richer.
Intoxicating.
What is it coming from?
“I am no prince. I am a king. Your king. And you, you infuriating little brat, aremyqueen.”
I laugh, but then his words slam into me, and I freeze.
Wait, what?
My head tilts as much as it can with his fist locked around it, fracturing the strange tension and breaking my thoughts in half, but doing nothing to escape that scent. It stings slightly, the kind of smell you taste in the back of your throat. There’s a coolness to it, almost slick and oily, like steel wrapped in silk. It fucking burns. It’s triggering allergies.
Before I respond to his whole “my queen” lie—because I mean, be so for real—–he clicks his tongue, sauntering backward until he hits the bedroom door.
“What? No hocus pocus where you vanish through the wall?” I tease.
His hand grips the frame, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was using it to keep his legs from buckling. “Nah. I’ll save all that for my next tricks. See you soon, little hellpet. I sure hope you like chaos as much as you act like you do.” The door slams shut before I can curse him out over the ridiculous nickname.
…
I’m not little at all.
And what did he mean I was filthy?
Tracing the footsteps toward the large tub in the center of the room, movement catches my attention from the wall that’s suspended there.
What the fuck is this?
Reaching up, the girl copies my movements. Her hand is my hand. My face is her face.
I shove the small bottles on the counter aside, desperate for a closer look. My hair is dark and cascades down over slendershoulders. Beneath the grime coating my face, I can see the color of my skin, tan from the sun. I touch the two jewels embedded at the edges of my temples—one red, one blue, both having been there since I was born. Or so the island witch had said.
