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If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my twenty-three years alive, it’s this: Women in pain give men confidence. It stirs up something instinctive, deep inside them, that makes them believe they have the upper hand, even if every logical piece of evidence screams at them they do not. Confidence makes men sloppy. And sloppy men are easy targets.
Who needs a coat, anyway, when panic is setting your blood on fire?
We’ve said the words to each other before, but today they sound different. Today, I love you sounds an awful lot like goodbye.
Good for you, I want to snark back at him, bristling at his imperious tone. And I’m the Queen of Shit Mountain.
Venna smirks. “You know, you’re heavier than you look,” she says, and snorts. “It’s all the muscle,” I say boastfully. “Yeah, that and the humility,” Izabel retorts.
Anassa, running in the moonlight, racing down the mountainside, faster than wind. A sun rising, rays blinding and beautiful. A crown, its metal glinting, then drenched in blood.
“You’re the most powerful woman in Nocturna, Meryn.” The certainty in his deep tone heats my blood, makes me look him straight in his glittering eyes. “You can bring this kingdom to its knees with just a word.”
“No one wants these tattoos, princess,” he murmurs. “There is no place for pride in war.”
No part of me mourns the man I killed in the dungeons, but I refuse to forget the high cost of finding my sister. The price of survival.
“It’s kinda cute how the big bad street fighter gets all flustered when people tell her she’s pretty.”
“What were you doing?” he growls, loudly enough that a couple of people around us shoot him worried looks. “Considering homicide,” I mutter.
And in case my implication is not crystal fucking clear: You touch her again and I’ll cull you myself.”
She’s proud of my brutality. All I feel is hollow.
“You’re worried?” He scoffs. “Never. You are the danger. Any person who doesn’t see that deserves what’s coming to them.”
