Page 95 of Cursed Shadows 4

I am not certain I can look into that mirror much longer.

Still, I sit here, tucked up, staring at the face I itch to cut free from its skull. I itch to defile the body.

I hate myself for that.

Yet I am not sorry.

I am only grateful.

Lying saved my fucking life.

And my hidden savagery took a life.

The surprise at my own brutality is reflected elsewhere. Not just me, but the voice that flitters out from the woods behind me—

“I didn’t think you had it in you.”

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The smooth sound of his voice jolts me.

A breath pins to my staggering heart, and I nearly fall over myself as I flip around. My knees press into the bloody soil, hands fisted, and I look up at the trees.

A pair of sleek black boots of fine quality dangle from above. I trace them upwards, dragging my gaze over the muted leathers wrapped around legs carved from muscle, up the black vest that looks painted on his lean physique, a black so dark that it’s a striking contrast to his porcelain complexion—

Then I find his face.

Marble, smooth, beautiful.

Inky waves brush his brow, a glitter of gilded irises beneath thick dark lashes, a jaw so sharp it’s not unlike a fistful of knives.

The knots in my shoulders unwind.

Dare flashes me a grin. The smile behind it is sincere enough to melt his eyes into pots of molten gold.

An aching swell rises through me.

I choke on a raspy sound, somewhere between a laugh and sob. The sob wins—and in a heartbeat, it wracks through me. My shoulders jolt at the same moment that my face twists into something ugly.

Relief.

That is what carves into me.

That is what brings my hand to my aching chest as I aim my twisted face up at him.

And there Dare is, through the glaze of my tears, perched on a bough,sitting, as though merely enjoying a day amongst the trees.

He arches a brow. The width of his wolfish grin fades. Then, in a blink, he’s pushed off the bough and falling down to the ground.

He lands in a crouch, the soft thud of his boots on frosted soil just a touch more than silent.

Before he’s even fully risen, I have already scrambled out of the hot pool of blood, and I’m running at him.

I slam into his chest, hard.

My arms come around his middle, firm, a grip that is locked, that is afraid to let go—afraid that he will leave, and I will be alone again, fighting to survive, starving and running and hiding.

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