𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐑𝐔𝐄𝐋 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑𝟐𝟐↶*ೃ✧˚. ❃ ↷ ˊ-

I press the tip of the knife against his skin so he can feel the bite. His black eyes focus on me with new intensity, still flashing with previous desire. "Why?" he asks.

Just that.

Seldom have I felt such a rush of triumph. I have to concentrate on keeping it from going to my head, stronger than the sweet, fruity wine I tasted on his lips. "Because of everything. Do what I say and I'll delay the pleasure of hurting you."

"Planning to spill a little more royal blood tonight?" He sneers, moving as if to shrug off the dagger. I move with him, keeping it against his throat. He keeps talking. "Feeling left out of the slaughter?"

"You're drunk," I say roughly, stating the obvious. Otherwise, he wouldn't have kissed me, likely thinking I was some other pureblood Fae in a drunken stupor.

"Oh, indeed," He leans his head back against the stone, closing his eyes. Nearby torchlight turns his black hair to bronze. "But do you really believe I am going to let you parade me in front of the general, as though I am some lowly half—"

I press the knife harder.

He sucks in a breath and bites off the end of that sentence. "Of course," he says, a moment later, with a laugh of self mockery. "I was passed out cold while my family was murdered; it's hard to fall more lowly than that."

"Shut up," I tell him, shoving aside any swell of sympathy I might feel. He never had any for me, or Jude, or Taryn. "Move."

"Or what?" he asks, still not opening his eyes. "You're not really going to stab me."

"What was the last time you saw your dear friend Valerian?" I whisper, my voice coming out low and sybaritic. "Not today, despite the insult implied by his absence. Did you wonder?"

His eyes open. He looks as though I slapped him awake. "I did. Where is he?"

"Rotting near Madoc's stables. I killed him, and then I buried him. So believe me when I threaten you. No matter how unbelievable it seems, you are the most important person in all of Faerie. Whoever has you, has power. Surprisingly, I require power."

"I suppose you were right after all." He studies my face, like he did before we kissed. "I suppose I didn't know the least of what you could do."

I try not to let him know how much his calmness rattles me. It makes me feel as though the knife in my hand, which ought to lend me authority, isn't enough. It makes me want to hurt him just to convince myself he can be frightened. He just lost his whole family; I will not think like this.

But I can't help thinking that he will exploit any pity on my part, any weakness.

"We're on the move," I say authoritatively. "Go to the first door and open it. When we're inside, we're going to the closet. There's a passageway through there."

"Yes, fine," he says, annoyed, trying to push my blade away.

I hold it steady, so that the knife cuts into his skin. He swears and puts a bleeding finger into his mouth. "What was that for?"

"For kicks," I say, and then ease the blade from his throat, slowly and deliberately.

My lip curls, but otherwise I keep my expression as mask-like as I know how, as cruel and cold as the face that stares back at me in the mirror. The blank, bitchy face that Jude hates for not revealing any emotion.

The face I realize I was aping from my nightmares, the one that frightened me into adopting the deadly calm.

His.

My heart is hammering so fast I feel sick.

"Will you at least tell me where we're going?" he asks as I shove him ahead of me with my free hand.