“You’ll get none from me, Prince. I’ll tear out my throat before I gift you my screams.”
“Your assumption lacks critical imagination.” Something almost like affection threads through his tone. “Torture is not your fate at my hand. I will collect your life, but not to waste it with your death.”
I suck in a breath at the dark promise beneath his words. My control snaps.
Wild, ancient darkness, a rush of teeth and defiance. Challenge unleashed to meet a worthy foe. I hiss in the broken Ninephene I know.
“Imra anfa thalar ni malar'qeth, Malir, ni kethran anfa'lesh thal'esh sovva eld'fin.”?1
On the heels of my words the magic of the Adalessikai tightens around my body like a vice, then releases.
As soon as the Vow left my mouth my heart dropped; I hadn’t been awareenough to claw it back.
There is a wild creature inside me. She shoves me aside and leaves chaos in her wake then abandons me where I’ll lie, gasping in the aftermath.
I gasp now, bending over, then force myself to stand though my spine wants to bow under the pressure. What did I do. No, oh no. I’ve. . .writ my own death, if he doesn’t claim it first.
If he doesn’t kill me, and I live but do not fulfill my Vow, I will pay a terrible price. The universal laws that rule us loathe Vow breakers.
The wild creature betrayed me again. I stare at him; take in his silence, he observing mine. It’s a Vow I must keep. I will die, or die trying. He isn’t at all disturbed. Why should he be? I’m no threat to him.
Then he blinks, a slow flutter of lashes as if he’s forgotten how to match facial expressions to emotions. If he has emotions.
“That,” he says, “was foolish.”
I tilt my head, jaw tight and lifted.
“Is war with me what you want, Lady?”
My hands flex with the need to sink a blade into his body. I can almost taste the blood on his lips.
I reply, voice as quiet as his. “What I want is your death. If I can’t have it, I implore you kill me quickly.”
If I attack, I canmakehim kill me quickly, but with a stroke of foresight I know a quick, clean death will not be my fate.
Renaud’s beautiful face remains empty as he studies me. My threat means nothing to him, my anger, hatred, and disrespect insignificant. He’d struck us all down without a gesture, a blink. In his presence, late spring morphs to early winter, and the birds do not dare protest. The forest understands not to anger its god.
“I don’t think you know what you want, Muriel’s child.”
“Don’t say her name. Don’t ever say her name.” A single step closer, a single tear, my arm twitching as if about to strike him of its own volition.
He turns his head, watching a Montague warrior come forward. A lieutenant, from the edging on the molded blue-and-silver leathers.
“My Prince, shall I bind the halfling wench and drag her to the palace? Lord Baroun refused to give the order for her capture but we knew you would wish to see her dragged before you upon your return, my Prince.”
“Oh, you knew, did you,” I murmur. Interesting. Faronne isn’t the only one who needs to do a little Housekeeping.
The fool unsheathes his blade. “Or I can end her here. You need not trouble yourself.”
What an ass-kissing bore. “Such a helpful puppy you are. Be a good boy, and your master will give you a treat.”
The lieutenant glares and steps forward. I lift a brow, then give him a thin smile.
Sure. Come closer.
Prince Renaud stares at him. “Leave.”
“Highness?”
