Page 36 of The Lure of Wolves and Whispers
I can’t tell if the words are a threat or a promise.
The last thing I should want isanythingfrom him, but I won’t risk refusing.
Especially not without a weapon of my own.
I reach out for the rose. His soft touch grazes mine as I take the bloom from his hand, and though I don’t mean for them to, my fingers clench instinctively around the stem at the cold of his touch. The thorns bite into my palm, and pain shoots through my hand.
I drop the rose, beads of dark crimson blood rising from my skin. Two droplets fall from my hand, staining the cream petals on the ground between us. With a low curse, I wipe the blood on my nightdress. It stains the linen as red as the ruby on the hilt of his sword, and the flare of piercing pain loosens my tongue. “I make my own luck.”
A flash of something assessing and hard fills his navy eyes.
My throat locks tight, and the breath slips from me. Could he kill me slowly for talking to him like that, or in a blur so fast I barely see it coming?
Neither of us reaches for the fallen rose. We leave it there, neither willing to be the one who bends first.
Another drop of my blood falls to the ground.
I squeeze my fists so hard that a warm trickle falls through my fingers.
After a long moment, the Bloody Prince tears his gaze from mine. He waves a hand toward the castle. “You should go.”
Taking my chance, I turn my back and leave him there.
His words play in my mind as the dew soaks my bare feet and I break into a swift run.
I’m no adulterer, but he wasn’t entirely wrong. Assassins can’t afford to be seen. Assassins can’t afford to be remembered. But that’s what I am now—an assassin.
Whether I’ve killed yet or not.
TEN
Already trying to escape?” growls a low, dangerously familiar voice.
The rough words jolt me up from my warm little cocoon beneath the heap of woolen blankets I pulled over myself last night—or was it early this morning?—each one of them luxuriously thick and woven in brilliant jewel-toned patterns.
The green eyes narrowing down at me from the foot of the bed are brighter than them all.
Wolf’s hair is a mess, and there are dark circles under his eyes that make the vivid green burn all the brighter. His black cloak lies carelessly at the foot of my bed—inches from where my feet dangle from the cover of the blankets.
I always sleep with them out so I don’t get hot.
Both are covered in dirt from running out into the rose garden, barefoot.
Shit.
The leather jacket strains against his shoulders as Wolf leans down, both hands on the edge of my bed, lethal cunning marking every inch of the tired lines across his face.
I keep the blankets held to my chest and glare up at him.
“How did you get in here? I locked the—”
“I don’t need a key to get in,” he scoffs.
My eyes drop to his large hands. I’m wary, watching for any magical tendril.Canhe use magic? I never thought to ask if he’s a mage like the other Whisperer or something else entirely. But there’s nothing except the flex of tendons along the backs of his hands, his knuckles covered in brittle scrapes and calluses.
There are scars, too. Some from wounds that were once clearly deep, others I imagine must’ve been drawn like a taunt across his flesh to heal in such thin, clean lines.
Wolf draws back then, crossing his arms over his chest. He drags his gaze away from me just long enough for me to follow it to where a steaming pot of coffee waits on the table.
