Page 72 of White Raven

“What?” I peered back, seeing Frida still standing there, her mouth open, the coins in her hand, staring at us with shock, curiosity, and devastation.

“You’re lucky it was just her,” he ground out, dragging me back to the room. He swung open the door, throwing me in and slamming it behind us. “You are the thrall. Do you get that?” He stomped over to the table, grabbing the flask off it. He tipped it into his mouth. “Dammit.” He flung the empty container down in frustration. “You do not get to demand and order people around like you’re used to!”

“I asked.” I pulled off my cloak, hanging it up, making sure Munch was comfortable in the pocket.

“That was you asking?” He snorted.

“Do we not need those items?” I sat on the bed, the sheet still stained with our blood. “Wouldn’t you rather dine up here than downstairs?” I could tell he wasn’t a fan of crowds; his shoulders would stiffen, his attention always on high alert when people were around.

“Yes . . . but . . .”

“But what? You two were having some awkward little dance and I just wanted to get to the point.” I shrugged, leaning back on my hands.

His eyes flashed dark. I tried to hide my alarm, pretending I was not affected by him, as he prowled to me like a hunter.

“And I’m saying . . .” His body moved between my thighs, forcing a small gasp from my lips. He loomed over me. “These marks tell everyone you bow to me, kanin.” Trailing a finger down my neck, he skimmed the scars of my tattoo. Heat fired through my veins. “I give the orders. Not you.”

“I bow to no one.” I forced out my response.

“Don’t you?” His hand moved to my chest, stopping at the lowest mark, set between my breastbone. I could feel the wound thumping, like it was answering him. “Whose mark is this?” His inked knuckles barely grazed the top of my pale breast. My throat dried up, goosebumps running over my skin. “Who owns you, kanin?”

His touch drifted lower, testing my boundaries. It was to claim dominance. Control. The adrenaline from earlier still fizzed, alternating my reality. The room seemed to have a bewitching power over me, wanting me to forget everything reasonable and sound. To wander into the hazy shadows with my mortal enemy.

“Knock-knock!” The woman didn’t bother waiting before opening the door. Onyx stepped back, but not before Frida saw me on the bed, Onyx standing between my legs, his hands on me.

Raw jealousy flickered over her features, before they turned to hate. “The items you ordered.” She held up the full tray, setting her chin to him, screaming with silent resentfulness and bitterness.

“Set it on the table.” He grumbled with irritation, moving toward the table he motioned to.

She glowered with visceral hate, dropping the tray down, its contents clanking and spilling. “Anything else?” she spat, turning to Onyx.

“No.”

She stomped for the door, but he grabbed her wrist, his tone chilling.

“Don’t ever enter my rooms without notice again.”

Her emotions rolled clearly over her face—stunned fear, to hurt, then to a cold rage. Her head dipped and I could see in her expression that whatever she had or wanted with him was over.

“Yes, sir.”

The wall shook with the force with the slam of the door, her exit flipping the mood of the room, suffocating me in it.

Rubbing at my head, I stood up, feeling my mind and stomach twist into uncomfortable knots. Was I really going to let him touch me? How far would I have let it go? I didn’t even recognize myself. Like something in me was broken. Wrong. How could I let the man who murdered my friend and kidnapped me do that?

Marching to the table, I swiped the shears from the tray. A need to cut away whatever was wrong with me. I took a handful of my long strands, the dull blades hacking through my hair as I grunted in self-loathing and anguish. Tears spilled down my cheeks as the years of treating my hair like a prized commodity, something to be honored and worshipped, now collided with my self-disgust and vengeance.

“Whoa . . . whoa.” Onyx ripped the scissors from my hands.

“Give them back.” I reached for them, feeling my sanity teetering on the edge, screaming in its final death throes. “Give them to me!” I clawed at his arms, hitting his chest, begging for the wrongness inside me to end.

He held them away, watching me evenly, the calm against the wave of destruction.

“Please!” I pleaded, seeking any empathy he had in his heart. He stood like a barricade against my appeals. “Please . . .” I slumped over, a hiccup in my throat.

He watched me for a moment more, before he pulled out the chair at the desk.

“Sit.” His tone was low, which only made me want to lash out. To be the petulant spoiled child the puppeteer had declared me to be. “Sit,” he said again, finally getting me to move to the chair.