King of Swords [ Regulus Black ]

Chapter 10

Disturbingly, I find myself touching down inside of a library with ease. It is by far the gentlest apparition I have ever experienced. That likely has to do with my tight grip on Regulus' arm.

It doesn't last long; the second my eyes adjust to the overhead lights, he knocks me to the floor. Pain shoots through my wrist as I catch myself on the scratchy gray carpet. A book falls from the shelf and onto my lap, adding insult to injury.

We are in the London Hellenic library, tucked between placards Upsilon to Phi. Rows upon rows of tomes line the shelves, masking us from view. It is well past closing time, but surely, a security guard must be present.

"What the fuck?" I spit at him, pulling myself up using a wobbly shelf. I don't care that he is a Deatheater. My pride will be my downfall.

Regulus raises both brows, blinking slowly at my audacity. He is wearing a cloak without a shirt underneath again, black trousers, and leather boots. There is a mask-shaped outline in his pocket. He must be on the clock.

"I know who you are," Regulus sneers as he pins me against the nearest shelf, narrowing his eyes. "And you lied to me."

I stand up straight, glaring back at him. A certain level of discretion is necessary here, but I don't have to cower completely.
"I am a free agent, actually," I lie, "I had business at that event just as you did. Tell me, why were you there?"

"Business?" He shoots back, "You're a shit double agent if you can't even veritaserum dose the right person."

"Well, then, maybe you should free me from this contract then."

Regulus brings his wand to my throat. The pointy tip lodges between my vocal cords and causes me to gasp for breath. My eyes widen. I need to watch my mouth.

"Don't tempt me," he whispers, "I would find such joy in it."

The smell of liquor wafts from his breath. He is not fully intoxicated, but I can tell he's been indulging. Perhaps he forgot to stop after the campaign dinner and has been drinking since he left Pembridge. I can't begin to imagine what his crowd gets up to in their spare time, but revelry makes sense.

"You promised you wouldn't kill me," I say through gently parted lips. "Are you a man of your word?"

Regulus cracks a smile at this. In one swift movement, his wand is away from my throat, and I fall to the ground again. My head bounces on the ugly gray carpet. He makes as if he is going to kick me in the ribs but holds off at the last second.

I lay on the ground momentarily, staring into the dim overhead lights. I have no severe wounds, but I am not exactly comfortable either. An ache resounds through my spine. I am just relieved he decided not to kick me for whatever reason.

As a muggle woman, I never expect dark wizards to treat me with abject kindness. I know better than that. But I have never been flipped on my back with so little care, not by Haro in training or Maslin in a fit of rage.
It is possible that I hate Regulus more than I have ever hated anyone. If he were not holding a wand at me, I might take a chunk out of his arm with my teeth and spit it back in his face.