Page 29 of Blood and Thorns
Reaching down, I expected her to wake, bracing myself for a burst of violence and then my own volatile reaction. Yet she barely murmured when I slipped my arms beneath her body, lifting her before throwing her down on the bed.
But when she bounced in the centre, she squealed in surprise.
With little patience I grabbed her ankle, pulling her to the end, only for her to kick out. She managed a hit on my side, followed by an arm swinging wildly before I yanked her up by her wrists.
“This is the one and only time I’ll allow you to refuse an order.” My tone was as hard as granite, the earlier anger still burning beneath the surface. “You eat with me, or not at all.”
Arabella swallowed, her breathing heavy as she blinked up at me with those fucking doe eyes. They’d widened withinitial panic, but now they’d darkened, the gold flecks glistening with defiance and a touch of loathing. She was a fascinating little thing, her emotions filtering across her expression so easily.
The way I held her forced her back to arch awkwardly, her weight held entirely by the way I locked her wrists in one of my hands. I released her without warning, her body falling against the thousand-pound sheets.
She glared at me through her hair, but didn’t make another move.
Leaning down, I made sure to hover my body over hers. “Disobey me again, and I’ll carry you out here on my shoulder, kicking and screaming. Have I made myself clear?”
A flush darkened the flesh of her throat, sweeping down over the top of her breasts. “Crystal.”
Chapter 16
Arabella
I must’ve been exhausted, because I didn’t wake again until Sebastian opened my door the next afternoon. Sunlight streamed inside the large window, washing the room in a warm glow that would’ve been nice if eyes of ice weren’t glaring down at me.
Disobey me again, and I’ll carry you out here on my shoulder, kicking and screaming. Have I made myself clear?
I reached beneath the pillow and palmed the knife.
His eyes narrowed on the movement, head cocking to the side. With a few powerful strides he closed his distance, and I pulled out the knife with barely enough time. I nicked him, but not even a second later his hand had encircled my fingers.
But rather than breaking my hold, he straightened my arm and held the blade to his throat.
He showed no fear at death, his eyes clashing with mine. My arm would’ve shook if he wasn’t holding it with an iron grip. If he was dead, my father’s debt would cease to exist, and I could go home. Return to…
Okay, I hadn’t thought this through.
“You think killing me will fix everything?” He pressedcloser to his skin, and I tried to yank my hand back, my fingers loose on the handle.
“Stop it.” I tried to pull away again, a sliver of red dripping down the tattooed thorns wrapping around his skin. He twisted my wrist, my hand spasming open, ready for him to catch the knife. My heart raced, blood rushing in my ears as the adrenaline vanished.
“Never pull a weapon you’re not willing to use,” he scolded. “Because trust me,belle, there are many that would use it against you.”
He almost looked down at me with disgust, as if he was disappointed I hadn’t taken it further. I’d never wanted to kill anyone before, but the temptation of it had been overwhelming. Because while it would fix some of my problems, it would also create others.
But now that I no longer held the knife I was… horrified. And a little pissed off at his disapproval.
“Do you need me for anything?” I asked, my voice more of a croak.
A muscle twitched in his jaw. “Come to dinner.” His sharp gaze didn’t lessen as he tossed a bag at the end of the bed. Without another word he left, taking the knife with him.
It took me a few minutes to gather the enthusiasm to get up, leaning over to reach for the bag. Relief was sudden and swift, the familiar clothes, makeup, and new bottle of shampoo enough to make me want to weep like a baby. I didn’t, because I’d hit my quota of tears for the remainder of the year. So I’d settle for carefully pulling out every object and placing them in a neat line on my bed.
I grinned at the paperback, thankful I’d be able to finish the story, but my fingers automatically reached for the notebook. Clutching it close, I inhaled sharply.
When I was around thirteen, I was advised by theschool councillor–who was definitely overpaid because her advice was usually terrible–that writing things down would help me deal with my emotions by concentrating on the good things rather than the bad.
She’d given me my first notebook, and I was initially excited to write down all the things I was grateful for, to remind me to keep going when the world looked bleak.
But the bad seemed to outweigh the good, and the feeling quickly passed. Now I used the notebooks to make up dramatic situations and stories, because that was one hundred percent a healthier coping mechanism.
