Queens of Mist and Madness (Fae Isles, #4)

by Lisette Marshall

but there was no doubt in the gesture, no trace of jest. Six feet of scars and muscle, hardened and honed. Magic his body could barely contain, with all the black he needed at his fingertips. I may be unbound and godsworn, may wear the unwanted title of the Mother's foremost enemy … but I was standing there in nothing but a light blue dress, and that look in his eyes promised me he wouldn't hesitate to take advantage of my every weakness if he thought it necessary. ‘I might beat you,’ I said weakly, because I had to say something. ‘You might,’ he conceded, apparently unbothered by the possibility. ‘Or you might not. We never really tested it out, did we?’ ‘And you …’ It was becoming harder and harder to find words, to keep speaking as my chest constricted dangerously. Fight you. I couldn't tell whether it was a promise or a threat. ‘You might hurt me.’ A shrug. ‘Not nearly as much as the Mother would.’ ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake – Creon, please.’ I struggled a single step away from him. Dying, dying, dying, sang that same phantom voice I didn't want to think about, and it's all because of you. ‘I'll think of something. I won't be stupid. I just need to—’ His hand closed around my forearm. His other arm swept around my waist.