Page 84 of Morfran, Dark Lord Reformed

The blade halted. It didn’t press deeper, yet it didn’t let up. She ground her teeth, releasing a breath, fidgeting as her arm holding the dagger trembled. She couldn’t do it. The hex wouldn’t allow it.

She truly was trying to kill him.

Tears returned to her eyes, tears of frustration and of hurt. Then she drew the dagger back, grabbed his collar, and kissed him.

Morfran had expected death. This was much worse. This was a torment—her lips crushing against his, the wonderful press of her body, the angry desire that grew behind her kisses when he kissed her back. He threaded his hands up through her hair to pull her closer, tightly, urgently, because he knew this was goodbye. She might not be able to kill him, but her people could. And it was over. It was done. There could be no more running. What he did now, he’d do headfirst.

His hands wandered down the long tassel of her braid, back to the ribbons tying it off. He tore them both out as he kissed her deeper, and she made a frustrated noise in the back of her throat, dropping her dagger, her fingers sliding up to his throat she’d just tried to cut moments before, before they went around his shoulders so she could embrace him even tighter.

She was warm. Soft. But her kisses were rough and angry, and their hearts pounded against each of their chests as if equally desiring to fight.

He grabbed one of her hands, threading his fingers so he was holding it—and then he wrenched her back.

She stumbled. He only saw a flit of her confusion before he turned and slammed her stomach-first against the wall. He’d seized her wrists and was binding them together with her ribbons before she even realized what’d happened.

“Morfran.” She spat his name like a curse.

He couldn’t stop the shiver that rippled down his spine upon hearing her say his name. “Sit down,” he whispered against her ear, and when she didn’t, he forced her to the ground. She kicked out when she saw that he planned to bind her ankles, too.

“These are ribbons,” she scoffed, half laughing as if he were an idiot. “They won’t hold me.”

“Go on. Try to escape. Squirm all you want.” He knotted the ribbons about her ankles tightly, suddenly reminded of the time she’d tied him against a post. “Your hex won’t allow you to escape. We both know it.”

Her glower was dark. “If you hurt any of them—”

He returned it. “It’s not them I’m going to hurt.” He pressed his lips together. He could still feel hers against his, a ghost kiss that’d linger for far too long. Maybe it would never leave. He didn’t know if that would be a bane or a blessing. He stooped, plucked up her dagger, and spun it between his fingers. “I’ve a meeting with my ex-wife that’s long overdue.”

Despite her hostility, a hint of concern touched her face. “You’re going to kill Ravana?”

“You’ve already tried once,” he said, picking up the torch and looking grimly in the direction that’d spit him into the castle. “I figured it’s my turn now. After all, I’m the reason for all this mess.” He wouldn’t look down at her again, couldn’t look at her betrayed expression any longer. He left her in the dark, feeling as though he’d also left another person—someone better—behind.

What lay ahead required only a villain.

28

Ravana’s Armor

He knew where she’d be. But still, he visited every room in the castle for old time’s sake.

The guards were easy enough to evade. Morfran knew all the secret passageways and entrances and exits that they did, as well as a few extra he hadn’t even told Ravana about. He visited the many rooms he’d lounged in during rainy days—his study, the war strategy room, the solarium. He stopped by the gardens where he’d wooed Ravana, the ballroom where they danced together beneath the glass chandelier, and even the nursery he’d had decorated with tiny bear patterns the day after their wedding for the children that they both wanted but had been too busy wreaking havoc across the kingdom to have.

Finally, when he was ready, he ventured to Ravana’s trophy room. The only room in the castle he couldn’t stand, ever since it became hers.

He paused when he saw the double doors swung wide open, saw the shadows fluttering across the floorboards. He’d been right. She was on the opposite side.

He hadn’t been inside the room for years, and as he paused in the doorway and looked in, he knew he was justified in that. It had always been a large, lofty room—two stories high, with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the city. The furniture was grand, too; there was a piano and a harp, and plenty of cushioned couches for lounging, and a fireplace large enough to fit three grown men inside.

The fireplace was lit with splendid flames, and the wine-colored curtains were drawn, further casting a sharp light into every corner of the room. It was in this light that Morfran saw the extent of Ravana’s reign in the trophies she’d collected: there were the feet of course, sticking out from plaques where elk and moose heads ought to be. Those plaques littered a great deal of the walls from floor to ceiling. But there were also jars on shelving filled with all sorts of items: belt buckles, bracelets, rings. A woman’s felt hat sitting atop a skull. A collection of glasses filling an entire shelf. A crimson vase of freshly plucked nightshade.

Spoils of war. Items that belonged to someone alive, once upon a time. He’d known she’d been eccentric in her obsession with feet. He hadn’t known it’d grown this bad, or that it’d branched to include all this.

“Morfran.” Ravana was sitting in a full-backed red chair by the fireplace, sipping a goblet of wine. She was in her best dress—black lace with purple trim and a low neckline—and her ebony hair was in ringlets that delicately curled around his old crown. She was also caked in makeup again, as if she wanted to appear at her most beautiful to taunt him. She spread out her arms in a welcoming gesture, though her eyes spelled murder. “Do come in. I knew you’d be visiting soon. We’ve been waiting.”

Gueldefore was sitting in the armchair beside her. He pushed himself to his feet, then tossed his new black cape back to sport Morfran’s leather pants. The corrupted knight’s grin had no humor in it. “I told everyone I knew you were no good.”

“So you ran straight to the most evil person in the kingdom to complain?” Morfran balked.

“It wasn’t planned,” Gueldefore sneered. “In fact, she found me.” He looked at her in adoration. “I’m glad she did.”