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“Will you pretend?” he asked in the low tone that left me shivering. “Will you bring my mother back?” I turned to glare at him and had the satisfaction of seeing a tiny crack appear in his impassive façade. “That’s a no,” he said. “You won’t like the alternative, Ryn. I can make you, and I will if that’s what it takes. Are you sure you won’t help yourself?” He seemed to know the answer to that without me vocalizing it. Over my dead body would I go along with anything he said. I didn’t care if I died right here on the spot. I wouldn’t lift a finger to help.
How stupid is this girl!?! Her mom just killed herself to save her and Irrik has clearly been trying to help her and she's too stupid and bratty to even help herself. Ugh. Just kill her. I'm already over her.
“King Irdelron has asked anyone connected with these rebel peasants be brought in for questioning. You’re coming in because you were too stupid to listen and have forced my hand.”
Seriously stupid. She brought this upon herself.
No one deserved to be in here, except Irdelron and Irrik.
It still doesn't make sense why she hates Irrik so much.
You are strong, he said in my mind. You haven’t betrayed anyone. You are still kind and good. Don’t confuse humanity for weakness.
Lord Irrik had shifted. His dragon head was at least four hands wide, his horned crest extending higher than I stood. His scaly hide was as dark as the sky on a moonless night, and he took up the majority of the huge room. He exhaled warm air through his nostrils, so hot it shimmered and steamed, billowing around me. His dark eyes were level with mine, and my heart pounded with acknowledgement they were Irrik’s eyes.
Clearly, there was no reasoning with an eighteen-foot Drae.
“Stop looking, creeper.” I’d meant to yell, but the words came out in a whisper.
I just can't get used to the random slang used. It is so out of place for the setting and time period.
“Did you . . . just attack me with a garden hoe?”
Had I really been considering a reversal of my hate for this turd-twat?
This dialogue is not coming off as authentic. There's too much modern day lingo and slang.
It’s probably why he was using the whip and not his gloved fists.
But what about all the times he tortured her before he knew about her blood.
“There is a difference between a quick death and one that is drawn out and painful. When I have attempted to refuse him, the compulsion to act builds and builds until it seizes me and I cannot resist. I have nailed my feet to the floor to try to deny him.”
“Let me heal you.” Surprise and then confusion flitted across his face before he scowled. “Why?” I rested my head on his chest, weary beyond measure, and let the steadiness of his heartbeat ground me. I was almost sure his recent injuries were because of me. Much of his behavior had always been a mystery, but I did know, looking back through our interactions, that he’d always decided on the lesser of two evils when he had a choice. Keeping my eyes closed, I told him the truth, “Because even though you are the one to inflict the pain, you are not the creator of it.”
