Page 13 of Lethal Souls

He’s young—a bit too young to threaten me, really. His beady eyes are round and familiar, his lips pinched tight, and his nostrils flared.

His skin is tan, and his black hair is slicked back. He’s taller than me by an inch or two, and unlike his father Rami, he’s not a fat fucking pig. He’s stronger, leaner. Clearly takes care of himself.

“Devlin.”

He grimaces and tries snatching the blade away, but I don’t let him. I hold on to his hand a few seconds longer before shoving him against the chest with my other hand.

He stumbles, and his grip around the handle slacks, giving me the chance to snatch the dagger away from him.

“You’ve been dodging me,” I tell him, pointing the tip of the blade at his throat now.

“Fuck you!” he seethes, eyes flaring.

I suppose he’s not that different from his father after all.

“You killed my father,” Devlin snaps. He reaches for something beneath his suit, but I rush him and pin him to the nearest column. I press the edge of the blade to his throat, and he growls, nostrils flaring.

“Please don’t tell me you’re stupid and slow like your father was.”

That pisses him off. He tries shoving me, but I press the blade deeper to his throat, drawing blood.

“Just stop,” I order, digging my forearm into his chest. “Fucking stop and listen to me.”

“Why would I ever listen to you?” he spits.

“How are you going to be leader of your people if you won’t even listen? Because I’ll tell you now, the way you’re going about this won’t work. You’re not smarter than me. You never will be, so just shut the fuck up and hear me out.”

He tries to fight me off, but I notice the panic swimming in his eyes as he glares at me. Two men approach the balcony dressed in Rippie brown, and I cock a brow, daring them to take another step closer.

“Don’t.” Devlin throws a hand up at the Rippies. “Just…fuck off. I can handle this.”

I eye the two men. “You heard your monarch. Fuck off.”

They leave the balcony but remain in view from inside.

Devlin finally stops struggling, his breaths ragged. While he’s calm enough, I search his suit for more weapons. I find another dagger, knuckle weights, and a pack of blooms.

I toss it all in a pile on the floor and sigh, stepping backwards to look him over. Then I flip the dagger in my hand around to offer it to him by the hilt. He stares at it, mildly confused and hesitant, before snatching it away.

“I know the last thing you want to do is attack me,” I tell him.

“You don’t know shit about me,” he spits back.

I raise a brow. “You think I don’t know anything about you?”

He grimaces.

“You’re Devlin Benton. Eldest son of Rami Benton of Ripple Hills. Brother to sixteen people—many of whom are from different mothers because your father was a fucking sleazebag,” I toss in, causing a scowl from his end. “You love your whiskey neat, you pay double the rubies to have lakefruit imported to you, and you hate wine. You have a girlfriend named Sophine who works at a silks shop and who, I bet, is wandering around this palace right now looking for you. I’m sure she’s completely unaware that you’re bringing violence to Armistice Night.”

His jaw steels, but I see his shoulders softening. “If you know so much about me then you know I want to kill you, which makes you the fool because you handed me my dagger back.”

“That’s only because I know you won’t actually use it.”

He stares, still confused. Love of Vakeeli, he really doesn’t know anything.

I take a step closer. “Let me break this down for you. One: I could put a bullet in your head faster than you can swing that blade. Two: this is Armistice Night. You kill me, and you may as well be killing yourself. The Council doesn’t like when people break their rules, even if that person is a naïve, dim-witted monarch who can’t tell his head from his ass.”

“Fuck you!” He stands taller, nostrils flaring.

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