Almost I feel the brush of fingers on the back of my head, and stiffen.
“Rise.”
I obey, and brace not to respond to the mocking amusement in his gaze.
He shifts that gaze to my father. “May I take your daughter in the dance?”
Those are thewrong wordsand he is clearly provoking me.
Another punishment. Another wing ripped from my back. The normal verbiage would be, “may I ask your daughter for this dance?”
“I am right here, Prince, and if it’s permission you need, it’s mine. Speak to me with some respect, and I may yet grant it.”
My father widens his eyes the way he does when he wants to slam them shut and go bury himself in his darkened office for hours. I'll owe Baba several apologies for breaking my promise to restrain my natural impulses. In my defense. . .the Prince is goading me.
Perceptive.Darkan’s murmur holds amusement along with an edge of patronizing contempt.But you allow it, and who can resist such low hanging fruit. Don’t be so simple to pluck.
There are days I wish I could yank you out of my head and show you simple.
You will soon be offered your chance, halfling,he croons.
The Prince is staring at me, one winged brow ever so slightly raised. On a face that holds all the expression of an iceberg, it’s almost like over emoting.
“Lady Aerinne, will you honor me with a dance?” He uses the same flat, sarcastic tone I do when I ask Arddie “Really?”
I mimic his raised brow. I must die anyway, may as well goout in style. “I believe I’ll accept to incentivize future good behavior. It’s also how one trains canines. First give a firm instruction, then a treat when they obey. Bad boys get spanks, however, not treats.”
He tilts his head and his lips spread in a slow, edged smile. He holds my gaze and his silence—only the powerless need use words—reminds me it will not go well if he chooses to take offense.
However, he has decided to be amused.
But do not dangerously presume.
He offers a hand, a glint of malevolence back in his eyes. “I will keep that in mind, Aerinne, though you are delightfully naïve if you believe the boy would choose to be good, faced with such a reward for disobedience.”
I don’t think anyone is breathing, and the Prince. . .his skin is white, smooth as marble, and as his eyes swirl blue, then pale gray like mist?—
An icepick pang in my temple—the misty place. . .
. . .white stones, scarlet blood turning black under the half moon, shrieking wyverns dragged from the sky by the power of one male. The flash of a silver blade, and moonstone eyes boring into mine. Black-and-gold scaled arms trapping me against a broad chest?—
Prince Renaud's personal colors are white-and-silver. Why am I remembering black-and-gold?
Sliding my fingers onto his palm, I almost jerk when crackling energy sears the skin where we touch. Like electric static, but ten times more painful.
His fingers wrap around my hand, a searing, stabilizing pressure. An innocent touch, but there's nothing innocent about the male at my side, nothing casual in the intertwining ofour fingers or how he pulls me close to his side as we walk. It's intimate, disturbingly intimate.
“You will enjoy yourself in my arms,” he says. “Montague warriors train to dance as fiercely as they train to kill.”
Talk about low hanging fruit.“Then it's a wonder House Montague manages to reproduce at all.”
His hand squeezes mine, but I think he's still choosing to find me funny. No male has ever pulled me with such casual command against his body. It’s an insult, as if I have no power to stop the uninvited touch, and a threat—because I don’t.
I'm certain he would consider his attention an honor rather than an insult,Darkan says.
I cannotbelieveyou are me.
Your better, wiser, half. Not the half that misthinksDanoncan, in your base vernacular, kick the Prince’s ass.
