“Are you angry, Sparrow? Use that rage. Fucking. Fight.” I hate you. If he could read my mind, I wanted that at the front. I hate you. A slow grin stretched across his mouth. “There’s my queen.” “Stop calling me that,” I seethed. “Make me.” He stepped back, raising his arms as the rain poured over his shoulders, onto the soaked fabric that was molded around his roped muscles. He dropped his sword, sending it splattering to the mud. Then he pointed to my blades and crooked a finger. If he wanted to fight unarmed? Fine. I still didn’t stand a chance, but I wanted his blood. I wanted his pain.
