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.
Never again.
Which means I can’t let him any closer.
“Because she has something over you, too, doesn’t she?” I say. “Otherwise, you’d leave, since you clearly don’t like it here. I don’t know what it is, but you have something to gain if you succeed. Something to lose if you don’t.”
And just like that, the drunken fog in his pale eyes clears, if only for a moment.
When I blink, Nox is gone.
CHAPTER 10
NOX
I kill Blaise one hundred and thirty-two times before the sun slips below the horizon and frees me to hunt.
I know the count because in each of my fantasies the kill is unique—the snapping of her neck, the pressing of my palm against her nose and mouth, the cracking of her skull against the dais.
In each fantasy, one detail remains consistent.
I bleed her dry.
Her blood tastes different every time.
Sometimes it’s sharp and coppery, as human blood often is. Other times it’s infused with vanilla and jasmine. Sometimes it’s as intoxicating as finely aged wine. Then there are times when it acts as a stimulant, setting every nerve in my unnatural body on edge, fueling my veins with an energy that could last several lifetimes.
When I fled the dungeons, I had the soundness of mind to lock the door behind me, but in the hours since, I’ve unraveled.
I’m still on the staircase, my footsteps soundless against the unforgiving stone as I pace up and down, up and down, up and down.
I should put as much distance as possible between myself and Blaise. I’m enough aware of that fact to keep returning to my upward climb, but every time I reach the top of the staircase, Blaise shifts or pulls her hair into a knot or breathes. Or maybe her heart just knows I’m drifting away, and it beats with a renewed vigor. And then I’m back at the base of the stairs, digging my fingers into the grout until my knuckles crack and my fingernails go worn.
I want her so badly, it’s as though my skull will split in half if I don’t have her.
I’ve never wanted anything—anyone—so badly in my wretched existence.
So now I’m collapsed at the bottom of the staircase, pressing my face to the floor, and it’s taking every bit of self-restraint in me not to slip the iron key—the one whose imprint is currently etched into my blistering palm—into the door, and push.
Blaise must be lying down, because when she stretches, it’s like she’s lying beside me, tucked into my chest. When she breathes, it’s like I can taste her against my cheek. Like she’s nuzzled her neck into my face, and I’m drunk on the scent of her, and all I want to do is press a kiss against her lovely neck, to scrape my teeth against her skin just barely…not enough to draw blood…
