“I’d like to speak with the stablemaster next.”
Shite. She looked left. The kitchen corridor was narrowing, funneling straight toward the voices ahead. She looked right. The others were closing in just as fast.
Her breath stuttered, the air suddenly too thick to swallow. “Shite. Shite. Shite.”
They were getting closer. A shadow moved at the edge of her vision. There was nowhere left to run.
Then—
The wall behind her groaned, and before she could react, an iron grip caught her around the waist and yanked her backward. A startled gasp barely escaped her lips before the wall sealed shut again, the crack between the stones disappearing as if it had never existed.
Her back hit something solid—someone solid. Strong arms trapped her, holding her tight against the unmistakable heat of a body. A breath, deep and steady, ghosted against the side of her neck.
Then, a familiar, low voice murmured in her ear—
“For someone trying not to get caught, you’re doing a piss-poor job of it, little killer.”
Chapter thirteen
Itwaspitchblack,the scent of aged stone and dust thick in the air as she struggled against Deyric. His arms locked her against him, his chest a wall of muscle.
“Let me go!” Emmaline twisted in his grip, her fists slamming against him, for all the good it did. It was infuriating, like he wasn’t even trying to restrain her, just holding her there, letting her wear herself out.
“Get your hands off me!” She hated how close he was, how the rough heat of his body pressed against hers, how the scent of him wrapped around her, dizzying and inescapable.
“I just pulled your reckless rear end out of certain arrest, and your first reaction is to fight me?” His words scraped against her skin, irritation threading through each syllable.
“Let me go, you… you brute.” She struggled harder, but his fingers only flexed rigidly against her arms.
Then, there was just the faintest huff of breath, something close to a chuckle, from deep in his chest. She could feel it, that lazy, infuriating confidence. He was waiting to see how long she’d last. She shoved again, her pulse hammering, her whole body too aware of how easily he could overpower her, of how he wasn’t even breaking a sweat holding her against him.
And how it bothered her less and less each time he squeezed her tighter.
“I didn’t ask you to save me!”
“No, you never do, do you?” His hands clenched, and her head swam as heat pooled low in her belly.
She hated him. Hated how his body fit against hers, how every inch of her skin burned where it touched him, how the solid weight of his arms made her feel pinned in a way that wasn’t just physical. She wanted to push him away. She wanted to pull him closer. Her breathing was rapidly turning to a pant, and before she could lash out again, he moved.
The world slanted. One moment, Emmaline was fighting, thrashing against him, her nails digging into the fabric of his shirt as she tried to tear herself free. The next, she was airborne, her stomach twisting violently as Deyric hauled her up, pivoted, and dropped.
She landed hard, her body folding over the unforgiving strength of his thighs, her hands hitting rough burlap as her legs flailed behind her. Breath hitching, her blood rushed to her head as the realization slammed into her.
He had bent her over his lap.
“What—?” She kicked, but his hand pushed against her lower back, holding her in place.
“Enough, Emmaline.” His voice was quiet. “You’re going to listen to me this time. Really listen.”
Each pulse came like a strike of a battering ram. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Oh, little killer. Why shouldn’t I?” A hand fisted in her dress, dragging the fabric slowly up the backs of her thighs, baring inch by inch of too-sensitive skin to the cold air. “Who would object?”
“Deyric—don’t you dare—” She choked, unable to name Caelith as a protector, not anymore, not after what she had just heard.
Crack. The first strike landed—sharp, precise, the sting spreading instantly across the curve of her ass.
She jerked, a startled gasp tearing from her lips.
