“Perhaps, but if you write down what you know, I’ll be able to refer back to it. Cross-reference it with my own notes.”

I try to pass the notebook back to him, but he keeps his arms crossed. “My handwriting is awful,” I explain. “You’ll be able to read it better if I dictate and you transcribe.”

Nox doesn’t budge. “I have to prepare the mortesalve.”

Ah. The mortesalve. Excellent.

Do I know what mortesalve is?

No.

That doesn’t mean I like the sound of it.

“Fine.” I roll my eyes and open the notebook to the first empty page before holding my palm out expectantly. When he doesn’t move, I say, “Are you going to give me a quill, or do you expect me to transcribe everything I know about the magic with my lifeblood?”

Nox’s nostrils flare a bit, and I comfort myself in the fact that even though I’ve lost this battle, I’ve at least managed to get under his skin. He crosses the room and returns with a quill and ink, but when he holds them out, I don’t take them.

“What now?” he asks.

“I don’t have anywhere to write.”

“You have the notebook.”

“I mean I don’t have a surface to write on,” I say.

“Write on your dais.”

“I can’t write on my dais. I’m sitting on it.”

“Then write on your lap.”

“Can’t. I told you my handwriting is practically illegible. I need a flat surface and something to sit on if you wish to be able to read it.”

Nox inhales, then clears a space for me at the counter he usually uses to prepare his torturous concoctions. I wait for him to pull a stool up to the counter before I prance over and perch upon it, making sure to graze up against him as I do.

He goes rigid, and it takes everything in me to suppress the smirk forming at my lips as I set my writing equipment on the stone counter.

Only after I watch Nox roll up his sleeves, the dark fabric hugging against the line that cuts across his forearms, do I allow myself to get to work.

I get little work done. In the span of what must be an hour, I’ve filled up less than half a page. The truth is, I know little about the magic that haunts my mind.

“Be careful not to work yourself sick over there,” Nox says, his voice a gentle hum against my ear. I immediately stiffen. Nox moves like a whisper, and though I hardly noticed him sneaking up behind me, now that I feel his presence casting a shadow on my back, I can’t unnotice him.

“If you’d like to do it yourself…” I toss the quill carelessly over my shoulder and wait for it to clatter across the floor, but the sound never comes. Instead, Nox tucks the quill back into my fingers, allowing his thumb to graze my knuckles as he does so.

My heart quickens.

Bad, Blaise.

I’ve about come to terms with the fact that the qualities my mind uses to determine which males are attractive are faulty at best.

I feel him move, feel the brush of his shirt pulling away from my back, but I’m so desperately deprived of any sort of physical touch that I find my lips betraying me. “I’m afraid I don’t quite feel secure in our bargain,” I say. “I’m not exactly inclined to hand over information without you obtaining the word of the queen.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” He reads my few useless sentences over my shoulder, the warmth of his breath tingling against my neck. His voice is lower than it normally is, tinged with darkness. “You’ve practically given me everything I need.”

I let out a nervous laugh, and against my better judgment—which I’ve managed to squelch my entire life and don’t intend to stop the habit now—allow my head to crane in his direction.

When I catch sight of his expression, my heart stutters.

Back in Othian, I had a swell of boys from town offering proposals. I never understood it entirely. I’m not ugly, but I’m not terribly pretty either. But I’ve known as much from a young age and quickly learned to compensate for my lack of natural beauty.

There are other ways to snatch the attention of men. A carefully timed laugh at their favorite joke. A brush of the hand against their shoulder. A perfectly sculpted smile that teeters on the edge of disinterested and inviting.

I am used to males looking at me. Wanting me.

But the shadow that crosses Nox’s face is not wanting, not desire. Not the nervous anticipation I typically find in more studious males.

It’s hunger. Claiming.

Because my hands don’t seem to know what else to do, I fidget with the pages of the notebook.

When the sharp parchment edge slices through my fingertip, I let out a quiet gasp.

Nox’s moon-pale eyes dart to the side and lock onto where I’ve cut myself. I follow his gaze to the drop of blood bubbling at my fingertip.

When Nox speaks, his voice has dropped to a shade below an open grave. “And what if I’m not motivated to broker such a deal?”

I snap my attention in his direction, confused. An hour ago, he seemed if not eager to help, then at least amenable.

His cool stare fixes on me, and I have to fight back a shudder at the way his gaze somehow both chills my bones and lights my blood on fire.

I have the sudden urge not to have my back turned to him.

I shift, turning to fully face him, my spine forced against the counter. As he draws nearer, his thighs pressing against my knees, my cheeks flush with heat, even in this dank dungeon. “Why wouldn’t you be?”

He plucks a scalpel from the counter behind him and plays with its glinting tip. He presses it into his forefinger, mirroring mine that now drips with blood. Except he’s not the one bleeding. “What if I don’t want her to let you go? What if I’d rather keep you?”

My back goes rigid, and—curse my traitorous body—a chill snakes down my spine and settles in my gut. It’s not that I’m not terrified of Nox; I am. In fact, the terror paralyzes me. But Nox is a cool blue flame, and I’m the moth hovering for a closer look, thinking if only I can stay far enough away, I can preserve my wings from going up in smoke.

The look on his face is unlike that when he brings me tarts, when he sits beside me as we eat.

This is not the Nox whose presence I’ve gotten used to.

The look on his face is all predator, and I’m too entranced by his beauty to know when to run. He places his hands on either side of me against the counter and leans in, his gaze drunk, flittering between my bloodied finger and my neck, and I know I must look inviting, my shallow breaths fogging the dungeon air, but I can’t seem to gather up the will to scream.

I know then that if he comes any closer, I won’t fight him.

I also know that I won’t be the girl who doesn’t fight.