Page 61 of Twisted Kings

He falls into one of the stacks, reaching for purchase, and there’s the sound of books hitting the ground as he tries to keep himself upright. The blackness has me, swallowing me whole and my hand is the only thing keeping me going in the right direction, as I drag it on the spines of books, running down the stack.

Stars streak across my vision as I crash into somebody, a body that’s taller than mine.

“Eva, what the fuck?” Benedict curses and grabs me, holding me still. The breath that explodes from my lungs is hysterical, and I try to duck behind him, hide behind him.

“Hollywood?!” Lord Frisco snarls from down at the end of the stack. I can hear his lumbering footsteps. “She got my phone—”

“Please,” I whisper, “please believe me, please, I didn’t ask for this, I swear it, my lord, I didn’t—” I’m pathetic and I’ve hurt alord, and it’s even worse than when I slapped Benedict. This is so, so much worse.

Benedict wraps his hand around my wrist and pulls me to him, his phone in his free hand. He taps it with his thumb, and the library lights come up, dousing us in reality. I can’t hide anymore.

Lord Frisco stands there, holding out his hand like his fingers are hurt, his other fist clenched and braced against the stack shelf. Behind him are a pile of books, tossed to the ground, spines up and pages to the floor.

Benedict looks down at me, his gaze furious.

But that core-deep anger is not with me. He lifts his eyes to Frisco, and lets out a low growl, a sound I’ve only ever heard from dogs protecting a bone.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” Each word drops from Benedict’s mouth, a hot stone hitting water, hissing at the end. Benedict holds me tight, to his chest, pulling me into him, my back to his front. There’s the faint hint of his cologne, leather and tobacco blossom, and the steady feel of him behind me.

And not a single whiff of alcohol. How has he not been drinking all night? I’d avoided looking at him most of the evening while taking care of Madeline, but still. I must remember him drinking something, a glass of wine, anything.

His arm comes around me, a profoundly protective move, as Frisco walks toward us, gait unsteady.

“She’s one of those, not better than she ought to be, c’mon, Hollywood, what’re you doing? Give her over.” He makes a grabbing motion. Benedict twists me behind him and his fist flashes through the air. He catches Frisco across the jaw, so hard I hear the crack.

Frisco hangs in the air for a moment, I can barely breathe, and then he goes down.

He’s on the floor, in a heap.

Benedict stands over him, shoulders bunched, ready to go again, but Frisco doesn’t move an inch. My eyes are wide as I pull away from Benedict to check Frisco’s pulse. I bend down, my knees hitting the wooden floor. His skin is clammy under my touch, and for a moment my heart flutters in panic. Did Benedict kill him?

I let out a sigh as I feel the first beat of his pulse, and I sag in relief.

It’s steady under my fingers, and he’s breathing. But he’s definitely out cold.

“We need to call Mr. Matthews,” I say, standing up. Benedict makes a scoffing sound, and I glance up at him.

“No,” he replies, and as I turn to him, he gently takes my wrist in his hands. “Did he do this to you?” He turns my wrist over,palm-up, to the light. Deep gouges on my skin, purple weals, crawl up the inside of my forearm. I’d forgotten the pain of Frisco attacking me and holding me captive, but now it comes rushing back to me. I shudder and glance away, turning my head. Benedict makes a pained sound. “I’ll challenge him,” he says, and that sends a bolt of fear striking through my body so fast that I jerk in his grip.

He lets me go, and I stare at him, more than shocked. I’m numb, stricken. Challenges have been illegal for over a hundred years, but they still happen, rarely. But still, a challenge, over a domestic servant? It’s unheard of. Over a noble’s sister, wife, cousin, of course, they happen. It’s sometimes brushed off as a suicide when it does, if the person who’s issued the challenge and won the fight is powerful enough to get away with it.

But Benedict is a lord, not an earl or a duke. He doesn’t command that kind of sway over the courts, or the police. And, for me? To risk all of that, forme?

“He’s not worth it,” I say, my voice trembling. Benedict’s eyes narrow and he takes a step toward me.

“But you are,” he says, my mouth going dry. He means it, and what implies stealing my breath and sending warm frissons of energy through my whole body. He means it. I’m worth risking everything, his life,everything, for.

“Don’t think you don’t know what you do to me,” he murmurs, “how you captivate my whole existence.” My heart feels like it’s going to stutter to a stop. How is this even real? How is this moment not a prank, a cruel trick a—

His gaze holds mine, demanding I do nothing but look at him, not letting me escape, the pressure of this moment bearing downon me like a vise. He holds out his hands. Trembling, I put mine in his, and he closes his fingers around them. He lifts each one to his lips, kissing one, and then the other.

The tremor crackles up my spine as he turns my hands over, and kisses the marks on each wrist, his eyes sliding shut.

I… I want to pull away but I don’t. I let him, his lips warm and smooth over my minor injuries, the little hurts that seem to throb less once he’s blessed them better.

He bends to me, his head sliding next to mine, and he brushes my hair back behind my ear.

“I would make you my queen,” his words rasp over my skin, and I exhale a shaky breath. What is he thinking, saying things like that? I close my eyes and lean into it, unforgivably folded into his dangerous secrets. Of course it’s a lie, a pretty one, because he wants my help with his devious plots. I can’t let the feelings of this moment overwhelm my good sense.

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