“He didn’t give me a time frame, you incredulous bastard.”
He stalks toward me, chewing up the space between us in four powerful strides. “Twothings,” he growls, ticking off his fingers. “Baze isn’t deaf, and unless you can learn to do it convincingly, stop fucking lying to me.”
A test ...
I should have known.
I don’t waste time pretending to be remorseful. “Well, stop asking questions you already know the answer to!” I yell, cold, pissed, barely holding myself together, and so very ready to be done with this conversation. “And Cainon was just being dramatic, so let’s not jump to conclusions.”
His eyes widen, that violent aura sizzles with an entirely new level of chill, and I find myself glancing around his den for anything I can use as a weapon—something to prod him with to let him know I’m not here to be pushed around.
“No, he was beingdiplomatic. He’s had his eyes on Ocruth for years, and evidence suggests he’s simply been waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike.”
The statement has me tripping internally. Outwardly, I try to show nothing but stark confidence.
“You’re wrong.” I shake my head. “That’s not what this is about. He made a deal with you: use of his ships in exchange forme. He won’t back out of the trade and risk the cost of war with his two neighboring territories all for a couple days without his promised.”
Rhordyn’s eyes seem to solidify, and I swear the temperature drops. “First rule of politics, Milaje. Never show your hand unless you knowexactlywhat you’re up against.”
I open my mouth to reply, realizing my mistake, but he’s already charging toward the far wall where a window resides. The glass is swung open, and he leans out, peering left and right ...
My brow pinches. “What are you looking for?”
He pulls back in, the dense coils of his hair now dripping fresh rivulets of water down his bare back, chest, and shoulders. “Support beams,” he mutters, storming down the line of the wall.
My frown deepens. “You said that in averyaccusatory tone ...”
“Did I?”
He opens another window and shoves his head outside, pulling back in a second later and lumbering toward the door wearing an expression hard as slate.
“Woah, woah, woah ... where are you going?”
“To slay a Vruk.”
My stomach drops.
“And ... and what aboutme?”
He stops and gestures around the room with a sweep of his hand. “Make yourself at home. I’m going to suggest a nap. I could be awhile.”
He continues toward the door, and I don’t think.
I just act.
I launch after him, grabbing his arm in a feeble attempt to keep him here. But he whirls in a riot of muscle and might, snatching my wrists and pinning them behind me before he slams me against the door like I’m just as sturdy as he is.
All the breath pushes out of my lungs as his other hand wraps around my throat, tipping my head until I’m staring into wielded eyes that hold no mercy.
One squeeze could end me. I can feel it in the strong muscles shielding my front—in his aura and his confidence and the breath so brazenly assaulting me.
He tugs at my wrists, shoving my breasts forward, arching me against his form. My body responds to his nearness like I’m a shadow hinging off his motion. The puppet on a string he accused me of being.
I hiss in his face, trying to jerk free. But he pushes closer, harder; making my heat rage and throb as if to battle his frosty strike.
He clicks his tongue. “Don’t come at me with that fire, Milaje. Not unless you’re ready to be torn to shreds. And I don’t mean your body—I mean your fuckingsoul,” he says through clenched teeth, squeezing just enough that I feel his fatal strength wrapped around my throat. He nuzzles his nose into the side of my neck and whispers, “I mean that pretty heart you think is so bruised.”
“You knownothing.”
