Page 102 of Malicent
“I was fifteen,” I lie but too quickly.
His eyes narrow just a fraction.
He doesn’t call me on it, but I see the skepticism…the knowing.
Instead, he walks forward and then crouches. Resting his forearms on his thighs, he settles in front of me. I hate the way I have to tilt my chin up to meet his eyes.
“Mmhmm. Yeah.” he hums, as if I’m a child spinning bedtime stories.
“What does she require of you?” he asks a bit too casually. It feels like an interrogation wrapped in silk.
My irritation flares, but I stamp it down. I need him closer.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” I murmur, coating my voice in velvet. I let the charm bloom—let it drip.
His gaze sharpens, locking onto me. The forest, the moonlight, the beasts he warned me of—all vanish.
“I’d like to know,” he replies, his voice dropping a register, now a quiet murmur between us. The space is suddenly…intimate. “How she likes to be worshiped.”
He slides to his knees so that he’s only inches away now, but while I kneel back on my heels, he stays upright, looking down on me. “How?”
“Devotion looks different for everyone,” I answer quickly, trying to ignore the smoky, oaken scent that clings to him. Uniquely his.
He studies me. “You kneel here, alone in a thin gown,” he says slowly. “Must one be beneath her…and laid bare?”
His eyes smolder, tracing my body like scripture.
I simply nod, but I’m unraveling inside.
The Nightmother’s command presses in. I feel my hatred simmering.
However, he makes me feel something else, but I can’t quite place it.
I do loathe you, I remind myself.
He reaches out. His fingers trail lazily up my arms, tracing over the swirls and dips of my markings.
Goosebumps rise in waves over my flesh. Still, I don’t look away.
I won’t.
“Tell me how to worship her, my little witch,” he whispers.
His voice is husky and low, nearly desperate.
And, suddenly…I know.
He isn’t talking about the Nightmother. He’s talking about me.
His fingers slide to the straps resting on my shoulders. Slowly, deliberately, he hooks them, slowly pulling them down, inch by inch.
The fabric slips, and cold air kisses my skin. My breasts are bare beneath the moonlight. Exposed and pale, my nipples are tight from the chill.
His eyes drop, and he bites his lower lip. The hunter there isn’t masked anymore.
I tell myself I’m allowing thisbecause I need him closer. Because I need to bind him.
His fingers are soft as they ghost along my shoulders, tracing my clavicles.
