My heart flips a beat.
“Understandwhat?”
“Why you cower from the world like it has you beat.” He dips down until his lips are brushing my ear, then whispers, “Perhaps you did die that day, after all.”
How dare he.
“Get off,” I hiss, thrusting my hips.
His own pull back, and he makes this low, vexing sound.
Adisgustedsound.
“Or,” he spits, tightening his grip on my wrists, head canting to the side while he guts me with his narrowed eyes, “perhaps I’m wrong. Perhaps you’re fighting like a corpse because you’re high as afuckingkite right now.”
Never has a sentence landed such a pulse-scattering blow.
I can’t breathe. Can’t speak. So instead, I slam my knee toward his junk.
If he’s focused on the fact that his balls feel like they’re going to explode, perhaps his brain will empty.
He buckles the moment I make impact, something between a groan and a laugh grating out of him. “Cheap”—he tips heavily to the side—”shot.”
I kick off the ground and slide backward, snatching my sword before I leap up. “It was.”
It was also animpulsiveshot. One I blame on the fact that I am, well ... high as a fucking kite.
“Need a hand up?” I ask, watching him unravel in slow, ungraceful increments.
“No,” he grinds out, pushing to a crouch, drawing a few deep breaths before he rocks onto his heels and stands. He clears his throat and advances, hobbling only half as much as I’d expected him to, the wide breadth of his shoulders swaying with his advance. “But Idorequire you to hand over your stash.”
My heart stills. The blood in my fuckingveinsstills.
He can’t possibly know about that.
Somehow, I keep my features smooth, voice steady. “I have no stash.”
He makes a clicking sound with his tongue and prowls closer. “Such a pretty lie. Under the carpet?” He flicks his sword into the air, then snatches it and points the tip at my face. “In that little hole you think is so well hidden?”
Motherfucker.
“Screw you.”
He releases a dark, humorless laugh that boils my blood. “No, Orlaith. The sentiment points in theoppositedirection.”
Something inside me goes deadly still.
He flashes a cruel, unmerciful grin. “But you live undermyroof, and you will hand over the Exothryl.”
No.
I need it to bring me back from the dead every morning. To remind my body how to function after the anesthetizing balm I glug down night after night to ease my terrors into submission.
It’s a delicate balance, and he’s snatching the pin that holds it all together, assuming he knows what’s best for me.
He doesn’t.
I launch, snarling, slicing through the air, letting all my rage and pain and pent-up hatred bubble to the surface as I swing and swing andswing—immune to the sound and the weight of this sword I hate so much.
