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Right. No punching Hellebore because that counts as touching. The universe really has some explaining to do with that one.
I jerk my chin toward the bridge. “You were watching, weren’t you? You get off on all of this sick crap.”
“Yes. And . . . yes.” There’s no apology in his eyes. Nothing but dark amusement. “Evermore live a very long time, which means we have come up with thousands of creative ways to stave off boredom. I’ve hunted the most dangerous creatures in the Everwilde. When that lost its appeal, I turned to mortals.”
“You must be so proud. You chased down and killed a species weaker and slower than you.”
“Who said I killed them?” He arches an eyebrow. “There are infinite ways to destroy something without physically harming its flesh.”
“Your creativity should be applauded.”
Why do I keep goading him?
He must think I’m being serious, because he doesn’t bat an eye. “Unfortunately, even toying with your species lost its luster eventually. Do you know what I found is the only kind of prey that captures my interest indefinitely?”
Good God. What else is there? “No, sorry. I’m not caught up on the wacko handbook.”
A wolfish grin reveals perfectly white teeth. “Nothing is quite as satisfying as hunting my own kind. Discovering what bait they can’t resist. Learning how to plant snares so carefully that they never even notice they’re caught. And then, when they finally understand that they’re trapped, helpless to my desires, I force them to watch as I slowly dismantle everything they’ve ever cared about.” Wow. I don’t even know how to respond to that. “So, I’m not your prey, I’m just your bait?”
He chuckles. “Oh, you’re very much both.”
The smarminess in his voice grates on my nerves. I want to hurt him right now. I want to make him feel even a sliver of the pain he causes others.
Brushing the hair back from my face, I say, “Tell me. After you’ve snared your victims and utterly ruined their lives, does it go away?”
“Does what go away?” He asks this casually, calmly, his hands still inside his pockets, his lips still smiling. As if we’re enjoying a pleasant chat.
But the softness of his voice is a warning . . .
Screw it. “That hole inside you. The one you can’t fill no matter what you do. When you finally destroy someone’s life, I bet that hollow recess inside your soul doesn’t go away like you think it will. Like you pray it will. I bet it only grows larger. I bet it’s eating you alive.”
Holy poopballs, I’ve gone too far. His eyes go scary-dark, and the twisted emotions I see inside them—
He moves so fast he’s a blur. I careen backward, only to smack into the huge trunk of an oak tree.
He pins me, hands on either side of my head. “Little pet, I could call in my bargain right here in these woods.”
I can’t hide the panic clawing to the surface of my face. If he demands I repay him now, my plan won’t work.
“There it is.” His nostrils flare delicately. “You can mask the fear on your face, but you can never fully hide the scent. Did you know that every mortal has their own unique pheromones for primal terror? And yours, by far, is the sweetest I’ve smelled yet.”
I don’t even have a response to that depravity. His gaze goes to my neck. Shimmer save me, if he sniffs me I’m going to laugh in his face, and then he’ll for sure murder me . . .
A flash of movement draws my focus to the full sleeve tats on his right arm. The moving tats. One would naturally expect to see bees and butterflies flitting over the exquisite collection of vining flowers . . . but no.
Instead of cheerful creatures, Hellebore chose the kind that inspire fear. Black widows peek from inside bell-shaped magenta foxgloves, the silvery threads of their dew-covered webs weaving throughout the scene. Wicked scorpions bask atop the slender red petals of fire lilies, their barbed tails lifted aggressively. A tarantula’s fuzzy black leg can be seen poking from beneath a dogsbane leaf.
Forgetting to be scared, I peer at the elaborate art. Every flower has been painstakingly drawn down to the last detail—and each is devastatingly poisonous. Oleander. Hemlock. Nightshade.
The vines twist over his flesh, the buds blooming as I watch, like they’re showing off for me.
One delicate white flower is more prevalent than all the rest, its insidious vines strangling the others.
His piercing gaze follows my stare, softening as it rests on the star-shaped white flower. “That one’s my favorite. It only grows on the highest peak of the Lunar Court mountains. A mere two to three flowers bud on the vine once a year, during the Winter Solstice. One petal at auction would go for millions of dollars—if I ever chose to sell them.”
I swallow, wondering how many Fae he’s poisoned with it.
“They say to force the vine into bloom, the moon sprites feed the plant the blood of heartbroken lovers.”
