Page 20 of Consume Me
Here, at least, I can breathe.
I cross to the far window, pressing a hand to the cool glass. Outside, fog coils across the lawn like smoke. The party feels a million miles away.
And then I hear it.
Footsteps.
Not hurried. Not hesitant.
Deliberate.
I spin, reaching through the folds of fabric and drawing the daggers into my hands before I even know I’ve done it.
I don’t want to kill him, but I refuse to remain defenseless if he tries to come for me.
The door creaks open. He steps into the room like a shadow given form, tall and dark and so fucking composed it makes me want to scream. As if the ground didn’t shake underneath us ten minutes ago. And when his eyes find me hovering in the shadows, he looks at me so calmly, I wonder if he knows what I do.
That he’s the one I’m fated to love—and apparently to destroy.
“Don’t come any closer,” I whisper, blades trembling in my grip.
They hiss and curse, echoing my warning.
He stops. But not out of fear.
I can see it in his eyes.
He’s studying me. Weighing something.
I force myself not to notice how handsome he is. How utterly delicious he looks in that jacket, especially because I can tell in one glance that he’s not the sort of male who uses his body for formalwear and small talk. No, this fae is a warrior. A soldier whose body has been trained and honed to do things far more deadly than dance with strange women at parties.
Of course I’m not noticing any of that.
“You’ve come to kill me,” I say.
“I meant to. But now…” He trails off.
“What now?” I press.
He takes another step toward me, but there’s no threat in his movements. He looks past the daggers into my eyes. “I cannot harm you.”
“Why?” The word sticks in my throat, but I force it out.
A beat passes. “Because you’re mine.”
The daggerswrithe. They want blood. His blood. They whisper in my ears, louder now, faster, trying to drown out everything else.Do it, do it, do it. Seal our bargain.
A familiar buzz starts between my temples.
“Will you kill me?” he asks.
He takes another step closer.
I flinch. My knees buckle. “No,” I whisper.
And then?—
The daggers yank free of my hands and rise into the air. Hover in the air between us. A low, hungry hum fills the room, shaking the glass windows in their frames. The art threatens to tear itself from the walls. The harp makes a haunting, screeching sound as if a phantom hand has plucked its strings.
