Page 43 of Snag
I throw my head back and laugh. I laugh and laugh, ignoring the tears edging the corners of my eyes and the cu-sith’s claws once again digging into my brain.
Zaya laughs as well, sounding as completely unhinged as I know I do.
I grasp her wrist. A shock of energy shudders between us. But it’s just another layer of disturbance across my already fucked-up senses. So I tighten my hold, dragging her off her stool and pulling her with me back toward the hall and the empty offices.
Still laughing, she follows me willingly.
My beast scrapes sharp claws against my psyche, against my insides. Hard enough to bleed me out, to bruise. Mentally, at least.
I ignore it. I keep the beast at bay. I have enough practice to withstand anything. Zaya Gage insured that with the sharp crack of her neck and her lifeless body hitting granite.
If I ignore it for long enough, the cu-sith will fade away again, smothered in the vast emptiness of my soul.
Just like it did after Zaya died.
“Not dead,” I say, laughing again. My chest aches like my heart has been ripped asunder. My head aches as if my brain is bleeding, my sight too sharp and hazy at the edges at the same time.
My body aches as if I’m dying. It’s possible I’m having a stroke. Or a heart attack.
I’m gripping Zaya too tightly. She’ll have bruises on her wrist.
But she doesn’t pull away.
Skin-to-skin, I can feel the lie of her. I have no idea how she ever fooled me before. The abilities lent to me by my unusual beast usually don’t work in the presence of awry. They never worked with Disa, around Disa. Though perhaps Zaya’s aunt never outright lied to my face. But now, somehow, for some reason, my beast offers me protection against all of Zaya’s manipulations, even inadvertently.
The soul bond was a fucking lie.
A trick.
Even as a child, Zaya had abilities beyond what a nine-year-old should wield. She could twist luck, occasionally even knowing the outcomes of minor incidents ahead of time. Games we would play — no player ever bested Zaya fucking Gage in a game of chance — or things like running out of gas or a dramatic switch in the weather.
How didn’t I know, even then, that those abilities were some sort of mental manipulation? Catching the youngestof us three — Rought — in her snare so easily. Then Rath … then —
Zaya grabs my face with her free hand, lifting up on her tiptoes to bite my bottom lip. Hard. “Pay attention,” she snaps. “You have a room?”
“The office,” I grunt, licking blood off my lip. Nausea roils through my stomach. The bones of my face ache, especially where she’s touching. I twist out of her grasp.
“Fuck the office,” Zaya says, looking up and down the empty corridor. “Do it here. I like an easy exit.”
“What?”
She backs up against the wall, hiking up her dress, grabbing my hand and yanking it between her legs.
She isn’t wearing any underwear.
She’s also smooth shaven.
I feel like I’m functioning, barely, on some sort of time delay. My mind is struggling to catch up as Zaya grinds against my hand, panting dramatically.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
Lie. Lie. Lie.
“Take off your glasses,” I demand, trying to find her clit. And failing. She’s acting like she wants me, but her flesh isn’t as capable of lying. She’s not wet, not even damp.
Zaya laughs nastily. “Want to look me in the eye when you fuck me? So romantic, Reck.”
“Every fucking word out of your mouth tastes like poison.”
