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“I’m not sure what I enjoy more. Seeing the way you grip a sword . . . or the way your dress grips you.”
“And I don’t know what I enjoy more. Replaying the image of my sword against your throat . . . or thinking about how your heart might look on my plate.” Grim’s dark eyes flashed with amusement. “Careful, Hearteater,” he whispered, towering over her, standing far too close. “I might just give it to you.”
She wanted to win the Centennial; she wanted that immense power that was promised, longed for it like a lover. She wanted the Wildling power she had been denied at birth. But she wouldn’t choose it over Grim. Or anyone else she cared about.
“Do you trust me?” she asked. He did not answer. He only pressed his hand against her heart. She shuddered, his fingers cold, a rush going through her. “Your heart,” he said, frowning. He shook his head. “It does not only belong to you.” Isla didn’t know what that meant. Before she could ask, she fell through the ground, to somewhere else.
Aurora’s eyes widened. “I told you not to bring anything, fool,” she said. Isla grinned meanly. “I’m not good at following rules, remember?”
The curses were broken. But so was she.
He looked at her like she was the thing they had torn apart the island for, the heart he had been desperately trying to find all these years, the needle that had finally threaded him together.
