Page 91 of Cursed Shadows 4

I realise now that I do not know his name.

I should. It will better serve me as I face down the death in his glittering eyes, eyes I once thought ordinary and dull, but are now too full of life.

The life in him, the excitement, is fuelled by the pain he will inflict on others. A special breed of male I wish to see wiped out from all worlds.

I dream of one thing for him right now—a slow, painful death, the sort mirrored in his gaze, the sort he has planned for me.

“I hide from him.” The answer I give is an honest one, but strategic, and my voice is a subdued whisper, as soft as it should be for any lady to speak.

He likes his victims weak. Makes him feel bigger, stronger—and so I play into it. It buys me time.

That sickening smile is still plastered onto his face. He tilts his head to the side. “Why do you hide from him?”

“I do not want him to have victory this Sacrament.”

The honesty strikes him enough to lift his brow.

Fleetingly, I think of the spectators at Comlar—and that this is the first time they are hearing these answers from me. I wonder how many asked themselves the same question, why I hide from my dark love, why I keep these bloody and muddy camouflages all over my person despite that it hinders the likes of Dare finding me.

Now they know.

But I add more.

My mind has settled on a scheme.

I add lies. “I do not want him to be victorious with me.”

Slowly, Boil’s smile darkens. That hunger in his eyes burns. “Do you not love your darkling?”

“No.” The lie prickles my tongue. “I once did, many years ago. Now, I…” I let the breath escape me, a sigh of dismay, a performance, “I love another.”

The tension in my throat itches. I ache to shove my hand down my own neck and scratch the insides.

I mask the discomfort with a twist of my mouth, the prelude to sobs.

A wink catches my peripherals. The wink of a gold blade that he’s threaded from his person, now spindled between his fingers.

I do not look at it.

I do not remove my gaze from Boil’s glistening one.

I play the role of the silly village halfling.

And I play it well, with tears to brim in my eyes, the faint sting irritating me.

Boil doesn’t hide the gold blade anymore. With a step closer, his shoulder dragging over the rough rock, he lifts it—and brings it to my cheek.

He catches the falling tear on the edge of the blade. “If not your darkling, who is it you love?”

“You,” I breathe the word with an ache I don’t feel, a rush of desperation, and I take my chance for a step forward.

Surprise flickers through him. It flashes in his eyes.

Blade still pressed to my cheek, he lets the doubt tug at his brow as he looks me over. Figuring me out. Looking for the loophole.

“You do not know me, halfbreed.”

“Do we always know the mind before we recognise the soul?” I ask, voice slick with tears. “From the moment I saw you… I knew it was you I should marry.YouI should wake with in my bed. Your kinder hands on my body.” I move for him, a mere step closer, and my hands flatten on his chest. “Their kind has evate. Our kind has mates. Don’t you feel it? The draw, the pull—the desire? It’s why the mountain brought me here, to you. This is fate.”

---