Page 31 of Bitter Queen (Advantage Play 4)

“With that?” She eyes the knife in my hand. Her wariness is palpable, but I’m proud she hasn’t let her fear control her so far. Not yet, anyway. After her meltdown in the theater, she’s been more present and hasn’t been getting lost in her past. But the fact that I almost kissed her when she was at her most vulnerable?

So messed up.

“It’s a theater prop.” I point the sharp side of the blade toward my open palm, then push it down until the spring in the hollow handle eats it up, making it look like the blade is embedded in my skin. “We’re going to practice with it.”

“You’re sure this is a good idea?” Her eyes are glued to the knife.

“Yeah. Positive.” Striding over to her, I offer it with an open palm. “Touch it. It can’t hurt you.”

Her hands are sweaty, and she wipes them against her white tank top before taking it from me. It clatters to the floor. With a deep breath, she squats down and picks it up.

“Sorry,” she mumbles. “Butterfingers.”

“I’m just glad it was the prop. Could’ve lost a toe,” I joke, trying to put her at ease.

She gives me a tight smile before running the pad of her thumb along the dull blade.

“See?” I prod. “Fake.”

“Okay. What do I do with it?”

“Try to stab me.”

Eyes widening, she jerks back. “What?”

“It’s fake,” I reiterate. “I want you to try to stab me with it so I can show you how to counter the move. Then you can try.”

“He never tried to stab me.”

“Yeah, but he could’ve, which is why you were paralyzed anytime he threatened you with it. Am I right?”

Her white teeth dig into her lower lip before she concedes, “Good point. So I just…try to stab you?”

“You’re cute when you’re flustered. Yeah. Just try to stick me with the pointy end.”

A ghost of a smile stretches across her face before disappearing. “Okay, Jon Snow.”

“You liked the Game of Thrones reference?”

“I may have dabbled in the series. But only the books,” she clarifies.

“You read Game of Thrones?”

“Maybe.”

My cock hardens as my mind conjures an image of her reading––naked––in my bed.

Then she lunges, and the picture evaporates into thin air. I grab her wrist and use a pressure point while twisting her arm at the same time. The prop clatters to the ground almost instantly.

Shocked, she murmurs, “How did you—?”

“I’ll show you. Props for striking while I was distracted, by the way,” I add with a smirk. Then, in slow motion, I perform the same movement and make her try it on me. It takes over a dozen tries before she finally gets the hang of it. But when she does, her face lights up like the Fourth of July.

“I did it,” she pants with a look of triumph.

“You did it, Blue.” My chest swells with pride. “How else would he try to use the knife to threaten you?”

She bites the inside of her cheek but doesn’t get lost in her past as she answers, “Against my throat.”

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