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Cassian only straightened as she dared a step closer, forced to do so merely because if he hadn’t, her mouth and his would have found themselves with no distance between them at all. “Who and what I prefer is none of your concern,” she said. “Nor is—”
“You haven’t answered my first question. Or are all these other questions a diversion?”
“What’s it to you?”
“More questions.” A cocky grin.
And that easily, she found it—the answer she knew would claw at him.
Nesta brushed her body against his, barely more than a whisper of a touch, but it still made him stiffen. Still made his pupils expand to nearly devour those hazel irises. She crooned, “No, I haven’t.” The truth. Her hand dug into the leather-covered chest. “Why should I have bothered? By the time I came of age, I was surrounded by low-born brutes and bastards. I’d rather use my own hand than sully myself with theirs.”
Any amusement faded. She could have sworn she heard the arrow of her words strike their target. She’d picked up enough about his upbringing. So she’d told him the truth—and wrapped it in a bundle of blades designed to slice him if he thought too long on it.
No, she had not been with any male, Fae or human. Tomas had wanted to, and she . . . some part of her had known no future lay with him. Knew about his hateful father, and that he did nothing to prevent the man from beating his mother. She had barely let Tomas kiss her, and that day when she had ended it, he’d . . .
She swallowed, shutting out the memory of what he’d said and done. The sound of her tearing dress. No—it hadn’t gone that far, but . . . The blind terror in those moments he’d tried, before she’d screamed and clawed her way free. And never told anyone.
Something must have shown on her face, in her scent.
Because his annoyance vanished—no, it shifted. Into something else, something . . . Rage.
That’s what stilled Cassian’s face.
Pure, burning rage.
It robbed her of breath, of any sort of sense that she might indeed have the upper hand as he ground out, “Who.”
She hated Tomas, hated him enough that she sometimes hoped he’d get run over by a cart, but she wouldn’t wish on anyone the sort of death Cassian’s eyes promised.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, and made to withdraw her hand.
He gripped it, faster than she could detect, and pinned it there.
His heart was beating at a gallop now—a thunderous, mighty gallop.
Dangerous, dangerous, dangerous, this male.
If only for the fact that he made her feel so out of control. That she had no idea what he’d do—what she’d do—if he found her vulnerable for even a moment.
“Did someone hurt you,” he said, his voice so guttural she could barely understand it.
The wrath, the utter stillness with which he stood—this was how he was when he was close to killing. Wanted to kill.
His hand pressed into hers, calluses scraping.
She hadn’t answered him. “Would it change anything if someone had? Would it make you see me differently, treat me differently?”
“It’d make me hunt them down and shatter every bone in their body.”
A shiver went down her spine—not at the fear of him, but at the truth in the promise. The sincerity.
“You don’t know me,” she said. “Why bother?”
Cassian snarled, inching closer, his hand gripping hers—then paused. As if the question sunk in. As if reality sunk in. He blinked. “I’d do it for anyone.”
She knew he meant it—and that he would.
Perhaps that was what unnerved her, made her want to slice at him. The utter sincerity. That he honored his promises, and did not make them lightly. That he saw and spoke the truth, and when he’d seen her that first day, he’d weighed her . . . actions when they’d lived in that cottage.
