Page 92 of Promise of Darkness
Thiago stills, his green eyes hooding with heat as he clasps my thigh. He tilts his head arrogantly, revealing the vulnerable skin of his throat. “Go ahead. You have me at your mercy, my love.”
“Stop calling me that.”
“My life is yours, my heart, my soul. It always has been, from the second I saw you, curse you. If you want it, all you have to do is take it.”
My heart skips a beat.
“And if I don’t want it?” I whisper, glaring down at him.
A thumb brushes against my inner thigh, and I suck in a sharp breath. Thiago’s dark eyes hood as if he knows exactly what’s going through my mind. “I thought we weren’t going to lie to each other anymore? Or to ourselves?”
The tip of the knife draws blood, and I throw the blade away with a clatter. I try to push to my feet, but he’s not done.
One hand locks around my knee, pinning me atop him. The other snatches at my wrist. I sprawl forward, slamming both palms against his chest and breathing hard.
Two hundred pounds of healthy, solid male lies beneath me. My nails curl into his chest, ruching the fabric of his shirt and drawing a hiss from him.
It had been instinct to touch him like that.
Perhaps something rising from the depths of my subconscious. My body recognizing what my mind doesn’t remember.
Want. Need. Furious desire.
But with it comes a flood of uncertainty.
I tear at his grip on her wrists. “Let go of me.”
“Aren’t you tired of running?”
“Aren’t you tired of chasing me?” I snap, and see the words strike him like a whip lash across the face.
Thiago finally lets me go, rolling out from under me and finding his feet with fluid grace. The muscles in his jaw are locked, his expression turning hard. “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps Ishouldlet you go.”
I clamber to my feet, wanting to take the words back somehow.
But it’s too late.
They’re out in the open, flaying the protective armor from around his heart. I can see it in his eyes as he turns for the door.
Words can be sharper than steel, and this time I’ve drawn blood. The worst thing is, the wound sharp words leave can often be far more lethal than any blade. They linger, fester. They’re never forgotten, even long after a flesh wound has healed.
“Wait,” I whisper as the doors slam shut behind him.
It’s not in me to be unkind, but I have been.
This has to be hard on him too.
What would it feel like to see your wife look at you as if you were a stranger, year after year?
“Fuck.” I kick the dagger into the wall, and it hits the floor with a clatter.
I stare at the door as if I can somehow see the prince through it.
I want to lick my wounds in the privacy of my rooms, but that’s cowardice speaking.
And an Asturian princess doesn’t back down from a fight.
Nor does she leave others to repay her debts.
