Page 101 of Malicent
The Nightmother purrs against my mind, her hunger deepening, drawn to the storm inside him. I salivate for the power in his blood and thrum with desire.
This kind of hunger does not make requests.
Ittakes.
Give him to me, little star.
Her voice is soft—almost tender—but the command strikes like iron. The blade heats against my thigh in response, pulsing like a second heartbeat.
It wants blood. His blood.
I can’t kill him.
Nora’s rage would burn the world.
A soft chuckle curls in my mind, silken but sharp.
Bind him, little star. His power can be ours.
And I realize she’s correct. Blood magic is powerful, and I can do it, but I need him closer.
The thought of Cage beneathme—bound, his power mine to drain, his obedience absolute—sends a rush through me.
My heart skips. I force my face to communicate neutrality, taking the hunger with cold indifference.
I picture him kneeling, his will mine. He is my dog on a leash, rolling over at my beck and call. He tilts his head.
And then I feel him—his magic—gliding along the edge of my mental wall.
Like a raven’s wing, its feathers brush over like the curious creature he is.
My barrier holds. I think of iron, unbreakable.
Not tonight.
I want to snap at him again, push him back, but I need him closer. So, instead, I offer him a sweet smile.
“You know,” I say lightly, “You could just ask a girl how she feels. It’s called communicating.”
A sly grin tugs at his lips. “I find people to be rarely honest, and when they try to be, they are not even truly honest with themselves.”
He says this smoothly, taking a step closer.
“Ask me, then,” I challenge, folding my hands together and turning fully to face him. “Give it your best shot.”
His gaze drops—to my neck and then lower—and I see the flicker of tension in his jaw.
He forces his eyes back to mine, keeping his face blank, but something still lingers there. Perhaps it’s hunger.
“How old were you,” he asks softly, “when she first spoke to you?”
The surprise must flash across my face because his damn grin blooms wider—almost smug—revealing a dimple I have never seen.
“And don’t play coy,” he tacks on smoothly. “You know of whom I speak: the one who summoned you here tonight…who calls to me every full moon.”
He crosses his arms, the fabric of his tunic stretching tightly over his chest and shoulders.
He knows. At the very least, he suspects more than he should.
