Page 92 of Cursed Shadows 4

I cannot lie.

At least that is what he thinks.

No, it’s less than that. Not a thought, not words in his mind that he thinks. It’s an assumption, a fact of life, just as he simply knows he needs air to breathe, it just… is.

He doesn’t question my ability to breathe. So why would he question my ability to lie?

Boil drops his gaze to the sweater covering my chest. He considers the swell of my breasts—and I have to steel myself against the sudden pulse of nausea that threatens to curl my mouth into a snarl. A dead giveaway.

Too early to give up my play, and I have already done enough for the blade to leave my cheek.

As though starting to follow his thoughts, the gold blade grazes down the side of my neck, then over the curve of my shoulder.

His mind wanders.

It strikes an idea. “Let me show you—show you how I think of you. Let me show you how deeply I crave you.”

His jaw tenses and he flicks his lively gaze back up to mine. After a moment, he jerks his chin.

He isn’t convinced of our love. Just convinced that I’m delusional. And I’m sure so many of the spectators must think the same. There might be the horrid sorts of fae watchingright now, sniggering under their breaths, whispering mockeries about me.

It doesn’t rile me.

Underestimation is not a stranger to me.

It works in my favour.

I surprise often when the expectations of me are low.

Gives me an edge.

And Boil gives me that edge, that silly, stupid male sort of doubt. It will cost him his life.

It is how I will save mine, that this ugly creature is at least willing to bed mebeforehe kills me.

So I start with a kiss.

My boots fold as I push up on my toes to meet his mouth.

And it’s only when I feel his lashes brush over mine, his eyes shutting after some beats of hesitation, that I lift a single boot from the ground, slowly, softly, until my heel touches my bottom.

I graze a hand up his chest to curve over his shoulder, but the other reaches back slightly for the small knife I have strapped to the inner-ankle of my boot.

I keep him distracted with another lie.

“I love you,” I murmur against his chapped lips. I feel them tug into a crooked grin against me. “It is you I will marry.”

The answer is a mere grunt, a smile wrapped around it, because any truth he can give me right now is a truth that will stop the bedding. He wants to get off before he slits my throat.

Males.

I fucking loathe males.

I loathe this one so much that my schemes are rapidly spiralling in my mind. Traversed from mere stabbings of hisheart to cutting him open and cracking apart his ribcage, just to scramble around his middle—or maybe cutting off his appendage—

I let the shudder of bloodlust run through me.

He mistakes it as desire.

---