This stopped me short. “Really? You can do that?”
He nodded. “It is not looked at kindly by the gods, but I have my ways.”
“I will be your messenger!” I declared eagerly. “Use me. Have you not trained me for this moment?”
“No,” he said curtly. He entered his chambers, where my candle, long forgotten, still burned on the desk.
“Why not?” I demanded, following. I wanted the satisfaction of proving my power both to myself and to him. I wanted to flex my fingers and change the nature of things.
“It is impossible,” he said, removing his cloak. “You are far too much of a novice still.”
“You have no idea what I can do!”
“And on top of that,” he continued, removing his gloves. “You are far too emotionally involved.”
There was no denying I was. “But that won’t stop me.”
He turned toward me, a gleam in his eye.
I was about to protest, to continue to argue. I opened my mouth to speak.
Quick as a snake strike, he caught me by my throat, silencing me.
I was so surprised I couldn’t do anything but gape like a fish.
“But it will hinder you,” he said, holding me with his arm outstretched, fingers tight. His face looked so composed. Deadly calm and pale. “It will bring your guard down and make you reckless. It will cause you to fight for things that should not be fought for, and it will cause you to linger in places you should not linger. It will makeyou brutal when you should be merciful and merciful when you should be brutal.” As he spoke, his grip tightened.
I pulled at his fingers, twisting in a silent plea. Just when I thought I’d pass out, he released me.
I sagged, rattled and silent, my hands coming to the sides of my throat.
“I was making a point,” he said softly. “I’m sorry if I hurt you.”
I nodded, pressing my cool hands to my neck. I understood. I understood everything he said and what he meant by it, but I simply could not accept it. “I just can’t have anything happen to her,” I whispered. “Dacia is special. She is good. Not like me. The kind of person you fight for.”
“I will send a warning. That should be enough.”
I nodded, but inside my chest I despaired. It wasn’t enough.
“Oh, mon coeur,” he said softly, and his bare hand slid along my jaw, tilting my face to his. “You do not need to be good to be fought for. You are powerful. I spoke so harshly because I fear I have become far too emotionally involved. This is the hurt. I should not interfere at all. It is not my place or my power. I risk the anger of the gods. But how can I deny you anything?”
I leaned into his open hand and nodded again. “Thank you,” I said, closing my eyes against the swell of emotion. And this time I truly meant it. “I appreciate all that you have done for me. All you continue to do.” I kissed the inside of his wrist.
His breath caught in a low hiss and his hand gripped the back of my neck, gently pulling me into him. He kissed me so thoroughly I grew dizzy and had to pull away and catch my breath with a gasp.
“Remind me,” he said, gripping me tight. “Whose whore are you?” He tugged at the edges of my hair.
I circled my arms around his neck. This, then, was familiar. An easy avenue to focus my frustration and energy. “Death’s alone,” I said in his ear, then tugged on his earlobe with my teeth.
It was like building a spell, with separate ingredients. Oil and water.One struggling against the other. The spell mixed, but not living—just the combination, me and him, infused with no magic.
We might have remained so. But I was so eager to please him, to be thankful for him, to prove again my worth to him, and to persuade him to help. In some ways I felt if I truly won his regard, then I would have the space to sort through the complexity of my own feelings. Until then, I was determined to be swept away in this fantasy we had built. And so, my magic spilled out of me without me even noticing, dissolving the boundary that lay between me and him.
I built a spell inside that chamber, and fell into him with a fervent, violent frenzy.
He shoved his hand under my chin and pushed me down onto my desk, heedless of the parchments and inks I had left behind. With one hand he kept me pinned and the other he ripped off my tunic, then my shift. I panted and arched my back against the polished wood and slipping papers. My breasts pushed up toward him, nipples swollen and aching for his touch, for his tongue. My thighs parted for his hips.
But he tormented me. With a sly smile he straightened the arm that still held me and looked me over. “You are like a wild rabbit; all you know is fucking and running. When will you let me catch you?”
