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He blinks. “What?”
“You cursed me,” I say, adding emphasis to each word. “Why? I did nothing to you.”
He takes a step back, frowning. “What are you talking about?”
“That night at the bar,” I say impatiently. “You touched me.”
“I…yes.” His expression shifts, and I know he’s remembering the way he pressed his palm to my cheek. Just like I know we’re both distracted by the idea of touching one another again. Ugh.
“Ever since that night, my skin is poison,” I tell him.
“The portal’s magic is unpredictable but it’s not my fault?—”
“I haven’t gone anywhere near that damned portal. Only you.”
“I am not responsible for whatever strange affliction?—”
“I killed a woman,” I snap, temper flaring as I reach my breaking point.
“Yes, I’ve heard that’s your profession.” He practically spits the last word at me, and I don’t miss the judgment in his sharp gaze.
“How do you know what my profession is?”
“Maybe you’re not as good as you think you are.”
I bite back another argument, refusing to let him distract me from what he’s done. “I killed a bystander that night. A woman who had nothing to do with…my job. I killed her by accidentally touching her. And now her people want to kill me in return.”
“What people?” he demands, eyes flashing with renewed determination. “Tell me where to find them.”
“Are you even listening? My touch kills people,” I say, voice rising. “Don’t you understand? I have a sister, and thanks to you, I can never hug her again. In fact, if I accidentally brush her cheek, she’ll die. Not to mention the fact that I’ll never get laid again. Or hold someone’s hand or feel someone’s arm around me. I’m so fucked. And it’s all your fault.”
I watch as he takes in my words. His eyes dart to my hands, which are bared and hanging at my sides. I consider attempting to touch him now and ending this once and for all, but I stop myself. Maybe it’s the defeat I’m feeling, but I can’t bring myself to attack him again. Or maybe it’s the fact that what I really want is to press myself against him for entirely different reasons. To strip out of my clothes and hand over my body for whatever he’d like to use it for.
He shakes his head. “I am not capable of what you’re accusing me of.”
Fury rises at his denial. It’s enough to snap me out of my lust. I lift my hand, reaching for his throat.
He steps back, but I leap forward.
We do this deadly dance for several more moments, and by the time I’m finished, I’m forced to admit he’s faster than me. It stabs my pride and fuels my resolve to kick his ass.
Kill him, Tor.
Call it what it is.
Ugh.
“You are beautiful and deadly, little fae.”
I scowl at the way his compliment warms me.
“Deadly is not a thing of beauty,” I tell him.
“It is to me.”
I huff because, if I’m being honest, he’s beautiful and deadly too.
“You will not be able to kill me,” he adds, and I glare back at him.
