Page 85 of Devoured

He lifts one of those thick brows, still smiling. “It doesn’t have to hurt that much, you know.” A slight accent curls his consonants into pretty, flowery sounds. “But I think you do it on purpose.”

I bare my fangs and prowl toward him, nearly wincing as my ankles pulse with pain. I still can’t run. I still can’t maneuver deftly. But I can transform and walk and bite.

And bite is exactly what I’ll do if this man doesn’t move.

“There, there.” He straightens but doesn’t leave my doorway. “I am simply observing that most werewolves prefer to transform all at once. One or two smooth, swift movements. You, however, just transformed piece by piece.”

I don’t care what this stranger thinks. I could devour him in seconds. Maybe I will. He broke into my room, after all. He invaded my territory. A dark hunger cords my belly. A long-buried instinct begins to open its maw in my chest. If I tear out his throat, I can rend his head from his shoulders more easily. He’ll die in seconds.

“You do it because you’re attached to the pain,” he says, far too presumptuously. “You do it because, in some strange masochistic way, you may even like the pain. Or perhaps you think you deserve it.” He shrugs, looking down at me without a hint of concern, even as my snout reaches his chest. Pulling one hand from his pocket, he skims it along my russet fur. A sizzling current of electricity roils beneath his palm, and I jolt back from the heat. Just a step.

Something about his touch feels different. Powerful, maybe. His smile widens as if he knows. “It’s faster if you transform at once. It hurts less, and it’s smarter for combat. The longer you take and the more pain you inflict on yourself, the weaker and slower you’ll be in battle.”

My pulse pounds, twice as loud as his. He inclines his head. “If you change back now, I can show you.”

I snarl again, deeper this time, and—

He laughs. “Okay, little wolf.” Turning on his heel, he grabs the frame of my door. “I’ll leave you alone. But really, you should try not steeping yourself in misery. Life hurts enough on its own; it doesn’t need your help.” He saunters out, closing the door swiftly behind him.

Cold air throttles my lungs, anger tightening my chest as I stare at where he stood only moments ago. Without thinking, I lash out, raking claws down the door. Wood splinters under my touch. The door shudders. Almost breaks.

“You do it because you’re attached to the pain.”

He’s wrong.

To prove my point, I transform back. My bones snap. My snout cracks. My body bows. But I do not growl or whimper. I stand perfectly still, unmoving as the transformation takes hold. In seconds, I am a girl again. Naked, shivering, and enraged. Who does he think he is? My palms tremble, hot to the touch as emotions surge through me, stronger than before. He taunted me. He broke into my room, and I don’t even know who the hell he is.

After applying a cooling salve to my scars, I throw on a pair of leggings and an oversized sweatshirt and storm down the corridor. I am going to find him.

Find him and wring his neck.

Following his strange, smoky scent, I find him downstairs. He strolls leisurely through a corridor near the Great Hall, hands tucked into his pockets, humming to himself with that same infuriating grin on his insufferable face.

He doesn’t acknowledge me. He doesn’t even glance at me until I shove him. Though his lean build seems as if it’d snap under a modicum of pressure, he absorbs the blow with ease, remaining steady on his feet. At least he has the sense to quit humming.

“That was rather uncalled for,” he says, brushing his hands along his sweater as if I’ve wrinkled it.

I glower at him. “Who the fu—”

“Yes. They said you have a mouth on you.” He looks over at me in sudden boredom. “Let’s not be a caricature, now.”

Oh my god. I might actually strangle him. “You can’t just wander inside people’s rooms—”

“Your prince wasn’t there to stop me.”

“So?”

“Well, you’re not just anyone, are you, Vanessa Hart?” The way he says my name—as if he’s caressing it with his tongue—raises the hair on my arms.

I grit my teeth against the sensation. “I am the future mate of the crown prince, and you—”

“So where is he, then? If he wasn’t in your room, and he wasn’t in his room, then should we start hanging missing posters through the halls?” The man tilts his head, gesturing to the empty corridor around us. “Seems to me like you’re alone. Just you and me, Vanessa Hart, against the world.”

“Stop interrupting me!” My blood boils. Rage surges inside like a riptide. It seems to strengthen the nearer I stand to him, building to a terrifying crescendo as claws rip from my fingers one by one. “Who. Are. You.”

His gaze dances with laughter, with secrets, and for a moment he almost looks like a young boy. A young boy desperate to be caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “No one. No one at all.”

A lie.