I hold the breath hostage, taking him in, admiring his black hair that falls just past his shoulders. It’s half pulled back off his face that’s partially shadowed by a few loose strands failing to soften his regard, his piercing eyes the rich molten color of fired wood.
His brows are thick, the lower half of his face shaded by a dark beard that adds a rugged texture to his already robust appearance. Like he belongs in one of the renown warrior clans that took root amongst the Boltanic Plains millions of phases ago, wielding an ax and a bloodlusting roar.
His gaze rips from mine, bouncing around our surroundings, searching every shadowed dip. I notice the tapered tip of his right ear is punched through with a small black cuff that encases part of the shell, but no beads.
He’s showcasing as a null—minus the clip—but I know better than to assume he doesn’t hear any of the elemental songs. Especially given the immense energy rolling off him, shoving against me. Making me feel as if he’s so much bigger than the space he’s currently inhabiting. Which is a lot, being a head and a half taller than me, his broad chest and shoulders reminding me of a Sabersythe. The bold, muscular sort of build often found in those with strong roots to The Burn—the hot, ever-sunny northern kingdom.
His condemning stare lands on me again, and it’s like a swift kick to the ribs. Winding.
Chest-deflating.
He’s looking at me like I just shoved a dead elemental off the wall. Or maybe I’m imagining things. I’m certain there was nobody else around …
The line between his brows deepens. “Are you okay?”
His dense voice skims my heart like flint scoured across stone, leaving a residue of sparks that crackle through my icy bloodstream in the strangest way.
Am I … okay?
I mirror his frown. “Are you mad?”
“Possibly,” he rumbles, voice like a spill of warm, rolling rocks.
A flake of snow lands atop my forehead, and my breath hitches as he lifts his spare hand, bringing it toward my face. Like perhaps he’s going to sweep the flake away. I catch myself falling into the motion before I realize he’s reaching for my veil.
The air between us turns stiff and sterile. Even Clode stops her whipping stir.
“I wouldn’t,” I purr, pressing a small iron dagger to his crotch—the dagger always notched just up my sleeve for times such as this.
His brow bumps up. “Quick hands.”
“It’s iron.”
“I can smell that,” he growls, his voice thick with the rich, exotic accent of northerners. “Name. Now. And not the fake one you gave to whoever hired you at the Hungry Hollow.”
Thorough.
Interesting.
I lean more pressure into my little iron blade that suddenly feels vastly inadequate against everything it’s pressed against, though I’m not one to stand down from a challenge. “No. But I’ll serve you your own cock if you don’t let go of my wrist.”
My words are sultry smooth, passed to him like a ballad I’m certain he’s going to appreciate less than the songs I sang all slumber … until the corner of his mouth flicks up the slightest amount.
Surprising me.
He makes a gruff sound, drops my wrist, then steps back, forging a small cleft of space between us that feels like a canyon I’m standing on the edge of—the arches of my feet tingling as a strange flutter takes flight inside my belly.
Confusion scrambles my thoughts.
“Thank you,” I announce, straightening my shoulders. Keeping my blade pointed at his crotch, I crunch the parchment into a tighter ball, then stuff it into my pocket.
Maybe I won’t have to kill him. He didn’t see me kill Tarik, hasn’t seen my face nor the notice I tore off the wall. He certainly hasn’t tried to take liberties with me.
Perhaps he’s not the monster I thought he was while he watched me sing all slumber with an obsessive sort of severity?
Not to mention the time it would take to drag him to the same edge I shoved Tarik over if I were forced to slit his throat where we stand. That’s even if I could drag him. I’d probably have to hack him into smaller bits—a messy task that sponges time. Something I’m swiftly running out of, Tarik’s hand a heavy weight in my pocket.
“If you’ll excuse—”
“There’s a dead male fae speared through the gut down there,” he says, brow arched, jerking his chin toward the wind tunnel’s gaping exit to the unmerciful plummet below—his voice a rough monotone that cleaves an even deeper split between my options.