Page 93 of Cursed Shadows 4

Boil’s hand comes around my side, then splays on the small of my back. He pulls me closer, close enough that I feel the excitement hardened in his trousers, firm against my belly.

That hand is much too close to my sneakiness. If he lowers his grip to my bottom, he might feel it, feel that I make soft, quiet work of threading out the small knife from the ankle of my boot.

My leg is bent at the knee, and I am grateful for my muscles trained to hold balance. Still, as my grip firms around the hilt of the knife and I start to lower my boot back to the ground, I lean into him so I don’t topple over. The fatigue and hunger have me too unsteady.

I lean into his hungry kiss, a kiss too hungry for all the filth I wear, covered in dried mud and blood. But this isn’t about lust, it’s about power.

I will take his power from him.

He must have family, loved ones, friends watching on the stands, shouting at him to pull back and look, shouting that I have a knife, that this is a trick—that I did what litalves cannot do.

I lied.

The sole of my boot presses onto the crunch of the dead, frosty grass. I mask the sound by pushing further against him and I murmur into his mouth, “Take me here.”

A hungry grunt is his answer—

Whatever weapon he was holding, the gold bladed threat of death, is gone from his grip. He holsters it in a fumbled moment, too eager, too stupid.

Now, both hands are weaponless threats as they come around to my spine and pull me along with his retreating steps.

He’s backing us to the tree behind him—and so that is where he means to take from my body before killing me. Fuck me up against the tree, then snap my neck.

No, he wouldn’t make quick work of it. I get the sense he would want to see the tears flood my eyes, watch the betrayal flash through me, hear me blubber and beg.

The darkness in him is as ugly as the boil on his chin. It will be the end of him.

His back connects with the tree—and his smile widens into a grin against my mouth.

I firm my grip around the hilt.

My breath sucks in, sharp, just a frozen moment before I strike. I swing my fist up, and I plunge the blade into his neck.

The fright jolts him forward.

I jump back before he can fall into me, grab me, hit me, but not before a sputter of his blood sprays me.

I am undeterred.

He staggers forward, a dazed look slackening his face, utter surprise that he aims at me. His hand lifts to the gushing wound torn into the side of his neck.

I give a smile of my own.

I feel my eyes alight with the hunt, natural instincts prickled in me, to survive, to fight, to kill.

And I lunge for him.

He strikes out with his fist.

Before it can connect, I twirl around his side and come around to face his back. I bring the knife down on him.

It plunges into a muscle that clamps to his spine.

His knees give out—then smack to the ground.

A wispy sound escapes him. Something of a groan or a whimper, maybe words trying to form, to plead or accuse.

I don’t give him the chance.

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