Strangely.
He crouches, eclipsing the sun as he pulls the collar of my tunic with such force a button pops free.
“What are you—”
He stuffs his finger down the hole in my shoulder, the stab of pain like a fiery poker straight through muscle, sinew, bone—
I scream, a grated burst I immediately regret.
Nobody makes me scream. Certainly not him.
His finger retreats with a squelch, and I snarl through bared teeth, heaving short, sharp breaths that do nothing to satiate the rage swelling in my chest like a roil of dragonflame.
He sniffs his bloody finger, the next words powering out of him with such savagery they’re almost tangible against my pebbling skin. “I can smell it.”
Wet warmth bubbles from the freshly plundered wound while I study all the bits of him I’d like to slash and dash. “I … really want to … kill you.”
“Perfectly aware,” he mumbles, flicking my blood off his hand. “But now is not the time.”
I look at the beast at his back—extending his wings, basking in the sun—then cast my gaze farther abroad, our surroundings a stretch of rippled sand, bits of it being picked up and tossed around in copper eddies. The air above it ripples too, distorting the powder-blue horizon littered with dusky moons almost close enough to reach up and cradle in my palms. Silver ribbons of aurora tangle with the rotund tombstones, a pretty embellishment for the otherwise scorched terrain.
There are no hills. No trees. No stones or rocks or boulders.
No signs of life.
There’s certainly no water …
Just me, a king, and a dragon that’s half the size of a mountain.
Great.
“A white flag is a white flag,” he says, and I cut my gaze back to him as he rests his elbows on his bent knees and tilts his head to the side. “May I free you from your shackles and trust that you won’t disregard the rules of our … engagement?”
“Probably not.”
“At least you’re honest,” he mutters, heaving a low, resounding sigh.
He reaches down the side of his boot and retrieves a bronze blade that’s shaped like a petal.
Fuck.
Shoulda lied.
I jerk against my ropes, hissing through clenched teeth as he brings it to my breast, slips it beneath the cord, and …
Cuts.
That segment of rope unravels, allowing me to pull my first deep breath since I was bound to the Creators-forsaken stake.
My eyes must express my level of shock, because a glint of humor sparks in his ember orbs. “Did you think I was going to stab you, Prisoner Seventy-Three?”
“Of course. You saw how many skin slabs they slapped on the ground at my trial, and I’d be lying if I said that was all of them. You’re obviously all heft and no brain.”
He chuffs, severing another rope. Another.
Another.
I roll off the stake, promptly face-planting in the sand again.
He heaves me to a wobbly stand and brushes me off, then leans close, sniffing. “You’re right, you do smell bad.”
“Screw you,” I mutter, and he cocks a brow.
“You wanted to kill me a moment ago. I can’t keep up.”
I snort-laugh. “Don’t worry. Few can.”
“Is that a challenge?” he asks, stuffing his blade back down his boot.
“No. But I will issue one to let me go.”
“Heartily decline.”
Of course.
I hope he doesn’t mind when I heartily slit his throat.
He unpins his cloak, pulling it from his shoulders, giving me an up close view of the powerful way his broad, muscular body moves. My cheeks burn as he swathes me in the airy material, secures the pin beneath my chin, then flicks me on the nose. “Adorable.”
“I’m going to cut out your tongue with that blade in your boot.”
He whips the hood up over my head, shrouding me in shade. “I’d prefer you use your teeth, but beggars can’t be choosers.”
I frown, realization dawning slower than an aurora rise. An indignant scoff escapes me, though it quickly snips off when he crouches, grips my left ankle in one hand, clutches the chain in the other, and yanks, shoulders bulging. A link pops free and catapults through the air.
Well.
He repeats the process with my other ankle, severing the length of chain he flings to the side.
“You’re good at that.” I wave my hands at him, the metal tether draped between them jingling with the erratic motion. “This next.”
He gives me a dry look and plucks a bit of rope off the ground. Merging my hands together, he slides my shackles farther up my arms, then binds my wrists, knotting it off.