“I’m here, because that,” Mal pointed a single finger at Reeve, “is a valuable weapon. One that is now mine, thanks to whatever he seems to value in you. Personally, the thought is unfathomable.”
Reeve took her hand into his own on top of the table, holding her shiny new ring on display, and the game began.
“I’m not sure how anyone could let such a gem slip from their fingers,” said Reeve.
Maeve remained calm, holding tight to that warm thread of Magic between herself and Reeve that helped her heartbeat remain reasonable. Mal maintained his unaffected expression.
Reeve’s lips pressed down on her fingers, kissing them gently, but his eyes swirled wildly. Wickedly.
He was already doing his damndest to make Mal come unglued. And when Reeve’s mouth slipped around her thumb, her mouth fell open and she realized he hadn’t been bluffing when he said he intended to win.
Reeve’s fingers slid to her wrist, wrapping it completely. He yanked her sideways, with little concern on his face, as she toppled out of her seat. He guided her perfectly onto his thigh, his other arm snapping around her waist, forcing their noses just an inch apart.
Maeve swallowed hard. Fear was a complex emotion when she was held in the arms of someone like Reeve. Someone who never showed the holy power that dwelled inside him. Whose stare told you he could turn you to mist with a blink. Someone who had all the ability to be nasty, vindictive, and cruel at his disposal, but who never let any of it touch her.
The contradiction blurred her line of reason, giving her a false sense of safety. She reckoned even Reeve could admit to that. He’d been patient, but beneath it all was still a man with his own agenda, desires, thoughts, and goals. Still a man with secrets he held against her. He proved her right immediately as he pulled her false sense of safety right from under her.
Reeve’s fingers pressed into her spine, arching her towards him.
“Tell me, Malachite, how will she like it best?”
Maeve’s eyes widened. She stared at him in horror.
“On her back? On her knees?” Reeve continued, his fingers trailing up her spine.
Her mouth fell open, and her eyes narrowed, hatred boiling deep in her belly as his vulgarity put her on bare display. She may as well have been naked, spread across the table.
That thought may have been a bit too loud.
Reeve growled lowly, the vibration from his chest seeped into her own.
“Why don’t you find out for yourself, Reeve?” asked Mal, his scowl deepening. “Waiting won’t make her any less of a snake in your sheets.”
“I like to play with my quarry, Malachite,” said Reeve with a grin. His free hand grabbed his goblet, and he tossed the entire contents of the liquor back and sighed, satisfied. “I’m certain you can understand that.”
Reeve’s hand moved to her face, trapping her jaw in his large hand. He fixed his gaze on her now forcefully puckered lips. “I like that she doesn’t know when I’m going to snap and take her.” His grip tightened, drawing a whimper from her. “I enjoy watching how completely wrecked she is, with nowhere else to turn but to me.”
Maeve’s brows pulled together, her eyes frantically searching his for any sign his words were part of the lie. But her stomach tightened the longer he held her trapped. His voice was too genuine and too smooth with desire to be an act. When his eyes lifted from her lips to her pale eyes, a smile developed across his face in pure devilish pleasure.
“Just look at her,” he purred, angling her head back and forth in his iron grip. “It’s like she forgets part of me isn’t man. Like she doesn’t know the fear seeping from her pores fills my mouth with saliva. That the more she runs. . . the more I want to make it hurt when I catch her.” Reeve’s hand on her back braced, hitching her hips directly against him. “You’ll look so pretty covered in my sin, won’t you, kitten?”
The word “foxglove” was at the forefront of Maeve’s mind as she fought the urge to push her palms against Reeve’s chest in protest. But she froze, the word never traveling down her bond with Reeve, because something else, no,someoneelse’s Magic, slammed between them in invisible power, attempting to separate them.
Maeve’s eyes widened. Reeve angled her head towards Mal, forcing her to look at him at the other end of the table. Mal sat, one elbow on the table, propping up his cheek with his other hand coiled in a fist.
The air in Maeve’s lungs tightened. The Magic pressed between her body and Reeve’s was indeed Mal’s. Distinctly Mal’s. Not Shadow’s.
Reeve’s fingers heated, nearly turning an uncomfortable temperature against her skin. His voice carried too much sincerity, too much venom, as he said to Mal, “She’s still infuriatingly yours, though, isn’t she?”
Too much jealousy; not enough lie.
Reeve gripped her hip, adjusting her until she faced Mal fully. His broad hand remained at her jaw, dominating her throat. Mal’s Magic swelled between them as Reeve settled her between his spread legs, forcing icy cold beams of possessive rage between them and keeping him from pressing her against himself fully.
Mal’s face was so cold, she wasn’t sure if he even knew what resonated from him was his own Magic. But his eyes were locked on hers.
She hated them. She hated their color. She hated the way they were an unavoidable reminder of her failure. Her defiance. And the costly errors of her own ego. Even the scar, running down his beautiful face, was hers to carry.
She was to blame.
