Page 60 of The Curse of Golden Blood
"This is foolish," I murmured, and stalked forward until I stood at the side of his desk, his eyes still fixed on the scroll. "Reconsider."
He didn't reply. He was not even looking at me. My grip tightened. I grabbed the edge of the scroll he was reading, pulling it toward me.
He finally lifted his gaze. His red eyes were as cold and calm as a winter sky. He had mastered his anger, bottled and corked the tempest behind that icy exterior. I forced myself not to shiver.
Why was he like this?
In one smooth motion, he rose from his chair, looming above me, his presence filling the room like a thick, overwhelming smoke.
"I made my decision," he bit out. "Stop provoking me."
Boldness sparked in my eyes. I was shaking, but managed to tilt my chin up so I could meet his eyes. "My friend could die because of your orders." I kept my voice steady, but only just.
"It wouldn't be the first. Nor the last. You’ll get used to it."
I frowned, studying his features, the way his jaw flexed and his lips curled in a line. Of course it wouldn't faze him. Death was nothing new. It was natural, an aspect of life. Perhaps it meant more when the death was yours, or someone you had known, or someone you loved. But to Zydar, it might be no more significant than the changing of the seasons or the turning of the tides.
"You don't feel anything," I murmured. "Do you?"
He didn't move, his gaze hard, unreadable.
"Do you?" I pressed, louder now. "You care more about your precious throne than you do about anyone's life, don't you? Did you even grieve for your parents when they died?"
His body stilled, and I knew I'd hit a nerve. "That's enough," he bit out.
"Are you scared to feel? Is that it?" I continued, reckless with the pain of rejection swirling inside of me. All the blood I’d given was meaningless if I stopped here and now. Why couldn’t he see that?
His nostrils flared, and he leaned in until his face was mere inches from mine. "Get out."
"You're scared, aren't you?"
He slammed a hand on the desk, making the scrolls rattle. "OUT."
"Coward."
He shoved back his chair and rounded the desk, advancing on me until I felt the wall at my back. The cold stone through my tunic pressed against my shoulders. His eyes blazed, his jaw tight, teeth grinding. I held his gaze as he leaned closer. He could break me in half if he wished. Andmaybe he did wish it.
"Go ahead," I breathed. "Do it. Hit me."
He snarled, a sound low in his throat, and drew back his arm, fist clenched.
I didn't flinch. I stood still, waiting for the blow to fall, hoping it would end this nightmare.
Instead, the anger melted away from his face. It was a flash of vulnerability and disbelief, quickly suppressed. The emotion was almost lost in the darkness of the room, as brief and elusive as sunlight on a cloudy winter morning.
"You're a fool," he whispered, almost to himself. "To think I could ever hurt you."
I opened my mouth to reply, but any words I'd planned vanished.
What I was feeling, the emotions and thoughts warring and clashing, was not disgust.
Quite the opposite, in fact.
I couldn't find a name for it, didn't think it had been given one. He hadn't moved yet, but it took all of my effort not to lean into him, to let him devour my face with his lips and his teeth.
Perhaps there was a word for what I wanted, what he seemed to want too.
A deep and intense form of longing, which went beyond the heart. A longing for closeness, for intimacy, for him to be touching some part of me. Like part of me knew him, had known him. Like he was a part of me, whether I liked it or not.
