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Her lips quivered, and I thought I heard a breathy rendition of my name.
Why did that single rasp have the ability to swipe the thoughts from my brain?
I was ashamed of how quickly my attention shattered. Even though my hold never wavered, my gaze dropped to the pink enchantment of her lips—the curves and dips I had long committed to memory.
I tried to blink away the resonance of their taste, the recollection fragmented yet sweetened by our sun-drenched skin and teenage naivete. I remembered how they felt against mine, hesitant yet eager, soft, and yielding…familiar.
“You’re too fucking pretty for your own good.”
I hadn’t meant to say that. The words had been reluctantly ripped from my soul. As they lingered between us like acrid smoke, I knew I had made a mistake.
She blinked, blue eyes glazed over with fear and…
“I’m… pretty?” she whispered.
“Shut up,” I retorted quickly, tightening my grip to cover up my error.
“You said I’m pretty, Zoei,” she rasped, those speckled blue eyes meeting my own.
A growl fought its way to the surface. “I also told you to shut. Up.”
“Not a chance,” she breathed, her lower lip trembling.
My spirit Alpha stirred, called to distraction. But there was no way in hell I would ever let myself be waylaid from extracting the confession I required.
Our gazes clashed, and I set my jaw in determination.
Focus, focus, focus.
I called a weapon from the floor, and it was brought over on a flame pedestal.
It amused me to see it was none other than the assassin’s dagger, warm in my palm as I tilted the tip into Olympia’s throat. It would be a fitting death, to be quelled by the very dagger that had been set against me.
She struggled, pushing against me with all that she was worth.
It sank in slowly, lacerating the skin. A sleek drop of blood welled around the wound, dripping down over the length of her neck. The scarlet liquid seemed too bright, too violent against her paleness.
Still, those lips quivered, fear evident in every puff of air that escaped them.
Her scent shifted—the smell fundamentally wrong. Too harsh, too thick. It drifted like an abrasion across my nose.
Yet there was a part of me that welcomed such roughness. It ignited a need to battle, the fiery pulses churning in my bloodstream and turning my breaths short.
Lungs afire, I waited. Watched.
She didn’t yield. Even with my hand wrapped around her jaw, squeezing down, she glared back at me with fire in her eyes. The dagger at her throat yielded nothing more than stubbornness.
Her skin had long gone deathly pale, cheeks devoid of their usual peachy color.
“Do you confess?” I probed, the words a hiss against her skin.
“Never.”
She licked her lips, leaving behind a glaze I longed to savor with embarrassing enthusiasm.
“Confess!” I growled, my spirit Alpha’s ire making the word rough.
“No.” The denial was a strangled whisper.
