Page 9 of Marked By the Enemy
“Location. Tension. Distance.”
I pondered if he saw what I did. If it were possible for him, he might discover a knife concealed beneath my pillow. When I talked, my voice was a pitch too high. “And?”
“Dreams. Sometimes.” He stopped by the table. “You played the court well.”
“I played to survive.”
“Same thing.”
“You expected me to fail.”
“No. I expected you to run.”
“I still might.”
He met my eyes. “If you do, I’ll find you.”
His voice didn’t change. I should have been afraid, but I wasn’t because I was prepared to die if it meant ending his life. He crouched by the hearth and stirred the fire with the poker. Sparks caught on stone.
I kept my eye on his back. One step. Two. The knife lay under the pillow. My hand found it. Steel, simple, short. It belonged in a wound. I rose to my feet.
One step. Two.
He turned and stared at the knife still clenched in my hand. “You idiot. You short-lived human.” His voice cracked on the word ‘short.’ The bond had already risen like a tide under my skin—alert, bracing. I perceived its observation. Waiting to stop me.
My knuckles tightened. The knife bit into my palm. I could do it. I could lunge right now. But I didn’t. Something inside me hesitated, and I hated it more than the bond.
Darian met my eyes. “You had a chance.”
I didn’t let go of the knife. My grip tightened. “And I chose not to take it.”
“No,” he said, too quiet. “You almost tore it. The bond flared.” His jaw twitched—almost a snarl, almost sorrow. “If you want to die, say it. Don’t drag me down with you.”
“If I could kill you, I’d risk anything.”
But I didn’t say the rest: that some part of me didn’t want to anymore. Not because I trusted him. Not because I liked him. But because something in the bond was beginning to confuse me, and I hated it. I hated the way it pulled at me when he was near. I hated the way it made me wonder if he felt it, too.
My heart thudded louder and louder. My vision blurred. I saw two of him. The real one stood still. “You came in here unarmed,” I said.
“You had a chance.”
For a moment, neither of us spoke. The bond tossed and turned like a buried memory I never agreed to carry. I hated that I felt it—like the ghost of a choice I hadn’t made.
“And I took that chance you speak of.”
“No, you didn’t. You hesitated long enough for the bond to decide that I was worth keeping.”
My muscles and veins strained against my skin. How dare he accuse me of hesitating! The marks hurt. I stared at the silver circle faintly burning in the skin of my wrist. They were so hot now. They were so angry at me for trying to kill Prince Darian! “I’ll try again.”
“Good. You do that” He turned his back.
I remained statue still, because the bond quivered deep and cold in my core, and I knew it was waiting for me to try again so that it could prevent me.
He whipped around to face me. “The bond is fragile in its first days. It anchors on instinct.”
“How do you even know that?” I shouted.
“In the archives. In the history books.” He plodded to the hearth and crouched again. He stirred the fire, so defenseless, so open.
