Page 53 of Dragons' Bride
Istep back, only to find myself against the wall. When I imagined the dragon princes following after me, it was in a different context.
Quinton rises, extending to his full height. He moves slowly, as if he has all the time in the world. In fairness, he does. "I'll ensure it doesn't hurt. I promise you that."
“That isn’t as great a comfort as you imagine.” I shake my head, trying to lodge my thoughts back into order. It doesn’t make sense. None of it makes sense. Or maybe it does. I don’t know. Logic isn’t doing me much good. "Why are you doing this?"
"The same reason I do all my work,” says Quinton, his voice free of all emotion. “Ettienne’s orders.”
Ettienne. Phantom knives stab into my mind just at the memory. Or maybe it is real. Something Quinton is doing. It is hard to tell just now. “Ettienne was the one to organize this exile to freedom to begin with.” My words come in quiet pants, my arms darting around the room though I know there is no way I can escape the dragon. “He said I could go.”
“He doesn’t trust that you will stay away,” Quinton says. “Or that the others won't decide they still covet you regardless. You are a distraction he wants eliminated.” He is a pace away from me now, the lantern’s light and shadow sculpting him into preternatural perfection. Confident. Powerful. Immortal.
And ready to end my life.
"He could have killed me before I ever left the palace. Why the charade with guards and a carriage and everything?"
"Sugar over a bitter pill.” Quinton shrugs in indifference. “My brothers need their wits about them for the trials. News of your death could be upsetting. Hauck especially can get irrational with emotions. It is cleaner if everyone believes you chose to embrace the offer of freedom and left for the paradise you’ve always wanted. A closed chapter.”
I snort, that backbone that seems to grow when I face certain death showing its face again. “Hauckcan get irrational?” I raise my brows, clearly recalling Quinton holding on to the overhead beams while yielding his pleasure to me – and his utter change the following morning. “Confuse pot and kettle much?”
Bravery and common sense really aren’t working well together for me.
Quinton says nothing to that. Either he is blind to the irony or else he isn’t and is too great an asshole to admit it. Either way, the chill coming from the dragon seems to settle through the room, filling every crevice with ice cold apathy.
Moving away from the door – and from Quinton’s looming form – I perch on the edge of my bed. I’m still wearing the night-dress I’d pulled on when going out to see to my needs. “You’ll probably wish to do a bit of clean up in the room, then,” I say, waving my hand around to the various items I’ve strewn about. The dress I’d worn in the carriage. The few sacks of food I’d pulled out of my pack, along with extra sets of stockings whoever packed it for me put in there. The hair brush. “Make it look like I've decided to run off.”
“Correct.”
"Right.” I tip my head up and meet his gaze. It has the same kind of steel in it as when he’d turn our training sessions into exercises in cruelty, though his pupils are tight now and the silver irises stretch toward subtle vertical slits. I cross my legs. “My answer isno."
"I was unaware I asked a question."
"You did. You asked it the moment you decided to let me see you in this room.”
Quinton cocks a brow. "And what question is that exactly? You think I’m looking for your permission?”
“Permission? Oh, no, no. You don’t want permission.” I laugh without humor. I might not be an immortal warrior, but I’ve learned a great deal more about the silver dragon than he likes to acknowledge. “But you would like me to make it easy for you. And I’m saying, no."
"I don't require my victim's assistance."
"And yet, here we are. Still talking.” I shrug.
"Alright. I’ll play. For a time.” Quinton crosses his arms over his chest and braces his shoulder blades against the wall. His usual stance. “What power do you imagine you have to make killing you easy or difficult for me? Do you think I want your absolution? Forgiveness? That I care whether you stay silent or plead for your life?"
I rise and stride up to him, gripping Quinton's gaze with my own. My pulse beats a rhythmic pattern. It's that bravery again, the one that comes out when I'm cornered like a rat. The same one that had me standing up to Tavias in a different inn. "No, you want none of those things. What you want, Quinton, is for me to get mad at you. And if you can’t have anger, terror will do for a consolation prize.”
His upper lip rises in a snarl. “You think I’m hunting?”
“No. You are scavenging for any scraps you can use to fuel your own self-hatred. You forgot that I know you, my prince. That I’ve seen behind the veil you like to wear for the world. And you know what I’ve figured out?” I'm right by his face now, my neck straining back to meet his silver eyes.
Quinton is so still he could be chiseled from stone, but it's a tense stillness. A muscle ticks at the corner of his chiseled jaw.
“I’m going to tell you. Because it’s not really a secret.” I smile. "You. Are. A. Coward."
"I can make this painless, Kitterny," says Quinton. "But I don't have to."
"You are so afraid of feeling something, you go out of your way to ensure the world hates you. And then you use the world’s hate to build a shield around yourself. You yearn for self-flagellation and darkness. You get yourself drunk on it. Too bad for you, I’m not going to play.” I tilt my chin to the side, exposing my neck. My heart races with a mix of disgust and fury, my hands opening and closing at my sides. As if I have more energy in me than my body knows what to do with. A snarl enters my voice. "Go ahead, Prince. Draw your blade across my neck. But the only thing you're getting from me is pity.”
Quinton’s hot angry breath whispers along my skin. I hear a knife slither from its sheath. Feel the whoosh of Quinton’s blood racing through his veins, the endless lub-dub of his heart, the hissing rustle of his lungs as they fill and empty with each breath. Over and over. Unending. Deafening.
