Page 9 of Cruelly Fated
I wheeled away from the fence, heat rising beneath my skin, and stepped into the open parking lot. The sun had dropped lower, casting grotesque shadows across the cracked pavement.
Next week, same time.
I had seven days to prepare for a deal that might cost me more than I was ready to give.
Five
KYON
It took everything in me not to glance back at her. Those legs—tanned, toned, built to wrap around a man’s waist—went on forever. The snug top clung to curves meant to test a male’s restraint. But that face… Fae gods would weep trying to recreate something half as perfect. Long, thick lashes framed eyes the color of violet dusk—too rare for this world. A perfect little button nose, and lips so full and pouty. Pure temptation. If she had a boyfriend, he’d better kiss her every damn chance he got.
And just like that, the thrill in my chest fizzled. My jaw tightened.
Of course, she had one. This explains why she bailed on the illusion as if it scorched her. Guilt, perhaps? One thing was for sure, she didn’t come here for a spark. And she sure as hell didn’t come forme.
By the time I reached my bench, the burn in my gut had nothing to do with her. My scowl deepened. I’d claimed the bottom bench the first week I got here. Fought for it. Bled for it. No one had touched it since.
Until now.
Aragon, leader of a smaller prison gang, sprawled across my seat, arms behind his head. That inked face split with a smug, ugly grin. Bastard had never dared push me before.
So today was the day.
I swung my leg hard, aiming straight for his ribs—only for his body to blur into gray smoke. Shit. I lost my balance, pivoted in midair, and dropped onto the bench like a dead weight, spine cracking against the ledge behind me.
Slow clapping echoed above. Followed by snickers.
I looked up.
Son of a bitch.
Aragon lounged on the top row now—actually there this time—lips curled in amusement. Why pull that on me now?
I clenched my jaw and faced forward, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing he had my attention.
“What a talent,” Aragon drawled. “Tell me you’re molding this beauty, not just trying to bang her.”
My hands curled into fists, knuckles popping as I flexed them open. I shouldn’t have been surprised he’d seen through the ordeal—Aragon was the only bastard in this pit who could’ve seen the girl’s illusion. When the court—under my father’s iron thumb—dumped me in this cesspool, Valor slipped me a file listing all inmates and their gifts. I’d skimmed it, focusing on the top ten. Aragon had sat at number one. His gift of sight let him pierce the veil—ghosts, echoes, things that shouldn’t be seen. And apparently, he could conjure illusions, too.
“We only just met,” I said coolly, keeping my voice neutral. Truth wouldn’t hurt either of us.
He whistled low and slow. I didn’t turn.He can talk to my back or piss off.
“Did you feel her touch you?” he pressed. “I bet you did. She looked real cozy in your lap—”
“Your point?” I ground the words out. The dragon inside me stirred, coiled and ready to defend what’s ours. It didn’t like sharing. A sentiment I wholeheartedly shared.
“Easy, scaly boy. I’ve got no sights on her.” He paused. “Yet.”
I snarled, exposing the savage in me. That wasn’t a denial—it was a fucking warning.Did I mention I don’t share?
“Stay the fuck away,”I said.
His jumpsuit creaked as he leaned forward, elbows scraping against his knees. Was he trying to get under my skin? He might get his wish soon…
“Most illusionists can’t mimic touch,” he mused. “They can’t fake weight or heat. Their creations vanish the second they come in contact with another living thing—like mine did when you kicked it.”
A rough, throaty chuckle escaped him, droning in my ears like a dare. “I’ve only met one fae who could do what she just did to you. And I’ve been around, dragon.”
