The moment stretches, the smell of rum thick on his steady breath as I wait to see what else he has to throw at me.
“My High Master is not merciful,” he whispers, though the words still gouge my skin. “Not when it comes totraitors.”
“I’m no traitor.”
“Perhaps not.” He shrugs, lifting his left brow, making his stitches pull enough to dribble blood down the side of his face. “Perhaps I should present him with the evidence and see what he has to say.”
His words land like boulders on my chest.
I open my mouth to speak, close it, stiffening when I feel something feather up the back of my thigh ... over the curve of my ass ...
“Or perhaps ...”
My spine stiffens, blood chilling.
“Perhaps what, Vanth?”
“We come to some sort of arrangement,” he’s quick to respond.
Heart in my throat, I repress the urge to shiver.
Toscream.
Instead, I drop into a dark, dead place deep inside that’s immune to the pain of my past, present, and future, feeling my face wipe clean of all emotion. Feeling my heart do just the same.
I break from his gaze, getting back to the task at hand—quick, efficient stitches. I tie off the thread, then use my snips to cut it free before I shove forward a step, pressing close enough to Vanth’s crotch that I feel his raging manhood hard against my thigh.
His eyes widen with a flash of excitement.
I settle the sharp tip of my snips against his swollen cock, and he sucks a breath through bared teeth—a hiss of surprise that gives me too much satisfaction.
I put my lips to his ear, letting them coast his skin as I whisper, “How about this ...”
I push a little harder.
Dig a littledeeper.
“You keep your slithering fingers to yourself and I won’t snip your dick off.”
His hand drops like a rock, and I shove back, pocketing the scissors and flexing my fingers. I hold his gaze like it’s some sort of conquest, reveling in the bead of sweat that darts down his temple.
“You think you’respecial?” he sneers.
“I think you’re grieving, and I think you’re drunk.”
He laughs low—a boiling sound that would scald if I could feel. “And whose fault is that?”
Mine.
All mine.
Fissures crackle across my shield.
I reach into my pocket, retrieve a piece of night bark, and hold it out.
His eyes flick down. “What’s that?”
“You need to sleep off that bottle of rum.”
