Page 13 of Cursed Shadows 2

My fingers tremble as I reach for the doorknob. I pause, flex them out, then loosen a long, steadying breath.

He’ll hear it on the other side of the rotted wood.

He’ll smell the unease, the nerves raging through me.

Still, I wrap my clammy hand around the cold bite of the metal and turn. I open the door with my retreat.

I had this whole first moment planned out in my mind. Nerves had me ruminating over and over, and I even went as far as to practice sultry looks in the mirror. Seduction is something of a skill, one I possess, but it’s watered down with me, like my blood.

So I’m not exactly at my most confident as I stand in the doorway and—

All my thoughts vanish at the sight of him.

The hard muscle of his forearm is braced against the doorframe. From behind fallen strands of inky hair, his piercing eyes smoulder in the shadows.

I didn’t expect this, how casual he is, how quiet and observant. Maybe I expected him to tower over me, as tall and intimidating as ever, or even vicious or distant, to spit at my feet or snarl at me.

He seems more weary than anything, with a touch of interest gleaming in those eyes, an elegant exhaustion draped over him, even in the way he dresses.

That black woollen sweater he wears...

For over a week now, he’s been without his leathers. He doesn’t practice on the battle blocks anymore, but rather stays with other dark ones up on the hill watching those who do still practice, observing.

So he dresses more for comfort and warmth now.

And that black sweater is a contradiction that thickens my throat and silences me the moment my gaze rests on it.

The woollen material pulls tight over his muscles. It looks almost stretched over the strength of his shoulders, and then seems to spill its dark dye onto his tattooed hand.

Yet, it has an indifference about it. Something casual in the small patches of pulled wool here and there, a little hole just under the neckline to show his honeyed complexion stained black in some spots—and the almost razored look of the elbow.

The sweater is costly but weathered.

Such a small thing to notice about someone, but on a lesser male it would be disarming. That sweater alone would tell me everything I needed to know about him. On Daxeel, it’s different—he wears it with an indifference to his wealth, a laziness in his status, and a disregard of his ego when it comes to his sheer strength.

Hand clutched onto the edge of the door, I lean my head to the side and my free hand toys with the tie of my robe, the only thing keeping this flimsy satin thing shut on what I wear beneath—or what Idon’twear.

The gesture is nerves, and his eyes land on the tick for a moment before he looks back up at me.

Those cobalt eyes hit me like lead. An intensity in them that wasn’t there a second ago.

Neither of us speak. But he moves first.

As though the movement is slowed for my benefit, he pushes his weight onto one leg, and with it, he draws away from the doorframe.

Now he towers over me.

I crane my neck to look up at him, then with each step he takes into my bedchamber, I take one back until I lose my grip on the door.

Without breaking our locked stare, he reaches out a hand to the side—and he hits the door. It slams shut behind him.

A nervous breath whispers from my peach-painted lips. Maybe I dabbed some rouge on my cheeks, too.

Yet every thread of my flimsy plan comes undone as I stand before him, feeling as small as a mouse. He’ll hear it in my heartbeat, the skips and thumps in my chest,

All he does is look down at me, his long lashes casting shadows over the natural clench of his jawline, and it’s enough.

I retreat.

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