Page 61 of The Serpent's Bride
It was a statement, not a question. And it was more of a growl than anything else. His words twisted deep inside her, feeling almost like a threat—like it was something he was interested in testing out for himself. She’d only been back from the kidnapping for less than thirty-six hours, and some of the scratches and bruises were already fading.
She shrugged, keeping her back to him, focusing on pulling on the old stockings he had brought her as part of their obvious ruse. “Always have. Grew up on a farm, lots of sunlight and fresh air. And I’m used to getting knocked around a lot, working with cows. They’re big, and?—”
Raziel was suddenly behind her. She gasped as he stepped close, forcing her to step into the dresser. Her hips pressed against the wood surface, trapping her between him and the furniture. She didn’t know which was the harder object. She had to bite her lip to keep from either whimpering or reeling around and tearing out his eyes with her fingernails.
His nose pressed into her hair as his hands settled on her bare hips. One of his hands was directly over the bandaged wound. It itched like mad, the skin healing around the stitches faster than it should for a human.
He pressed his hips forward against her at the same time he dug his thumb into the bandage. The sting of the pain combined with the raw feeling of him behind her was too much.
The noise it pulled out of her was instinctual. It came from somewhere deep inside her. Somewhere she had no control over,somewhere animalistic and wild. Somewhere that howled in hunger. Some part of her that she didn’t even knowexisteduntil right there and then.
It wasn’t a sound of pain.
And it betrayed her.
Raziel growled.
A sound that was just as inhuman as the part of her that had inspired the moan he had pulled from her. The pressure from his hips relented only to redouble.
She dug her fingernails into the surface of the dresser so hard she swore she must have scratched the surface. It felt like the air had been pulled from her lungs.
His lips pressed to her throat, and she felt the tips of his fangs. By the lords of the deep, this was it. Maybe in a few moments, she’d be dead.
It’d solve her internal debate, that was for certain.
But the primal part of her mind had taken over, unable to listen to reason. It could only beg. Plead. Whimper.
Yes, gods—yes!
His growl turned into that unnatural purr, sounding like the rumble of a deep car engine. She tilted her head away from him, inviting him in.
When his fist slammed against the dresser, it was like a light switch had suddenly been thrown, a floodlight cast over the moment. He was gone just as quickly as he had been there, standing across the room, his hands over his face.
“Get. Dressed.” Each word was bit through clenched teeth. “We have work to do.”
She was trembling. It was like being woken from a drugged sleep. She was still half unconscious, still in that stupor—ready to be ravaged—and now she had been plunged into an ice bath. She shook her head, trying to wake herself. “I?—”
“I’ll be in the car.” Raziel slammed the door on his way out.
Stunned, she finished getting dressed. Her outfit matched his—two paupers. She went to the bathroom and mussed up her hair. Taking the cork from the bottle of wine she had drunk half of the night before, she stuffed it in her pocket. Putting on the ratty shoes and her own wool cap that Raziel had included for her “costume,” she sighed.
To say she was conflicted would be to put it lightly.
Heading downstairs, the guards barely gave her a second glance as she went to the driveway. Sitting there, idling, was a canvas-sided truck that had seen better days. The back was stacked with wood crates. They looked like munitions, if she had to take a guess. He’d mentioned crates of weapons from Deniel.
Raziel was sitting behind the driver’s seat, his hands resting on the thin metal steering wheel. He was glowering through the dingy windshield.
She climbed into the passenger seat, holding out her hand. “I need to borrow your lighter.”
That earned her the arch of an eyebrow.
And she shot him a flat look in exchange. “Oh, just hand it over.”
He placed it into her palm a moment later.
Flicking it open, she lit the wick and took the cork from the wine bottle she had put into her pocket. Lighting the cork on fire, she clicked the lighter back shut. She let the cork char for a little while before blowing it out.
Using the rearview mirror, she smeared some of the black char on her face as soot, then blended it in with her fingers. “Makes for the best fake dirt. Learned it from some traveling entertainers.” She lit the cork again. “Show me your hands. You did your face but not your hands, I bet.”
