“Go on, then,” Commander Gareth mutters, shoving me forward.
I clench my stolen knife tighter and, after a brief hesitation, I follow King Reave into the tent.
He’s rolling up his sleeves and removing his riding gloves when I step inside. He casually tosses the gloves upon a makeshift table that’s been set up in the center of the tent,then reaches for a small lantern. As he lights the lantern, I notice both of his muscular forearms are covered in strange, branching scars. I freeze in place, staring at them while he removes his mask, sets it aside, and begins to sift through a stack of papers he grabs from the table.
At least a minute passes.
“I asked you to come inside, not to hover in the doorway looking as though you’re plotting something sinister.” He doesn’t look at me as he speaks. “Do they not have manners wherever you’re from?”
“No,” I say, flatly. And because I’m tired and angry and a little stupid from hunger and dehydration, I don’t shut my mouth even though I know I should. “Everyone is feral where I come from. We’re usually running naked through the woods at this time of night, howling at the moon. I don’t even know how to properly exist inside such a fancy tent, to be honest—I’m going to end up making a mess of it. Probably shit on the floor or something.”
He glances up from under his long eyelashes.
For a tense moment, I think he might laugh; I can almost sense the cruel, dismissive chuckle building in his chest.
But any trace of humor that might have been bubbling up disappears as he drops the papers and saunters around to the front of the table, leaning back against it and folding his arms across his chest as he appraises me once more.
“Come here.” He nods to the space directly in front of him. “Now.”
My instincts scream at me not to move.
Then I think again of Briar, still captive outside, and I obey—though I stop with several feet still between us.
I want him to be hideous up close. For the lantern light to shine on an unmasked face so ugly that anyone in their rightmind would be disgusted by it. A face that mirrors the ugliness he and his oppressive family must carry inside of them, to do the things that they’ve done.
It doesn’t seem fair that this man—this monster who has wealth and power beyond imagining—should also be allowed to be undeniablyattractive.
But he is.
Godsdamn it, heis.
His stubble looked darker outside. In the lantern light, I see that it’s actually lighter, matching the dark gold and auburn waves of his relatively short hair. The rich color pairs strikingly with the pale blue of his eyes, which are cold as winter frost and shining with a sharp awareness that makes my breath catch. His nose is straight and strong, his mouth carved with equally flawless precision—the kind of features you usually only see in paintings. Particularly ones where the artist has been bribed into perfecting the appearance of his wealthy clients.
I’ve never wanted to deface a work of art before.
But there’s a first time for everything, I suppose.
I’m clenching my knife so tightly, I’m starting to lose the feeling in that fist. The numbness in my fingers shoots up my arm and toward the base of my skull, making the tent spin.
The dragon hatchling continues to screech and bellow outside; a particularly shrill cry makes me wince. The king’s gaze shifts toward the sound. For some reason, I find myself holding my breath until he looks back at me.
“It’s rare for a dragon bond to exist outside of my kingdom these days.” His voice is low, his tone difficult to read. “Unheard of, actually.”
“There is no bond between me and that dragon.”
“That isn’t what the urgent message I received informedme. And it’s obvious the creature wants to get to you, even now.”
He steps closer, until there’s almost no space between us. Trying to intimidate me; I’m sure he’s used to people cowering when he moves against them like this.
I stand up straighter, lifting my face to his with unflinching defiance. “There. Is. No. Bond.”
We’re close enough that I can feel the warm puff of slightly exasperated air he exhales. Close enough to notice the subtle twitches of his mouth; for the third time since we’ve met, I suspect he might be on the verge of laughing at me.
Instead, he moves back to the table, returning his attention to the papers there while shaking his head. “Why fight such a gift?”
“Dragons are notgiftswhere I come from.”
“Most anything can be a gift, if you’re strong and smart enough to harness it properly.”
