Page 205 of Curse of Darkness
The beast watches.
He stares at me, his eyes glimmering every shade of gold. They’re not fae eyes in that moment. They’re not even the eyes of the bane who threatened to tear my throat apart. No, they belong to something else. Something wild and angry. Something that howls at the moon and hunts the dangerous night.
“I promised you a reckoning,” Lysander says, lifting his eyes toward the tree’s leafy canopy. “Once this was all said and done.”
He’s the perfect target to ease this anger within me. “Then let’s dance.” I stalk toward him, summoning two knives into my hands.
The fucker laughs at me.
And the servant scrambles to get out of the way, though he doesn’t flee.
“Dance, little princeling?” Lysander doesn’t even bother to draw his own knife. “I’d like to oblige, but where I’m from, we don’t dance. We hunt. We kill. We fuck. None of this dueling bullshit.” Those eyes gleam at me like polished gold coins as his voice drops to a growl. “I’ve spent thousands of years hunting your kind. You want me off the leash, pet? I don’t think you can handle me off the leash.”
The smile that touches my lips feels lethal. “Don’t worry. I wasn’t planning on pulling any punches. Dueling’s not my forte.”
“You prefer a male shackled on his knees,” he sneers.
Oh, yes. We’re finally doing this.
I circle him slowly as he does the same. “Don’t pretend you wouldn’t like me in the same position.”
It seems I’ve surprised him. “True. But I wouldn’t put you there in order to cut your throat.”
Blood sprays across my hand as I slice my blade across his throat from behind, meeting my queen’s eyes. I can see how much Adaia enjoys this moment—even as she wears her daughter’s face. There’s nothing she likes more than seeing me kill one of her enemy’s favorite warriors, and not even the nothingness within me—that barren black hole I seek comfort in—can escape the flare of disgust that tremors through me when I see the lust ignite in her eyes.
The bane gasps and chokes as he drowns on his own blood, his lungs heaving as she steps toward me, her eyes no longer on him. Night after night, death after death, it’s always the same. He’ll rise at some stage in the early morning, his fingers slowly twitching as whatever magic curse is wrapped around him brings him back from death. And tomorrow night we’ll play this game again until I can barely escape the sensation of his blood wetting my fingers.
Barely escape the bite of her nails in my back as she demands I fuck her. Here. Now. Still covered with blood.
I blink my way out of the memories.
And just in time, for an enormous fist swings my way.
Finally. A real match.
I duck beneath the swing, my knife kissing the air an inch from Lysander’s abdomen as he leaps back. He’s on the back foot, and I press my advantage, swiping low and hard, one after the after, so he doesn’t get a chance to breathe.
He avoids every swing, baring his teeth in what’s almost a grin before he captures my wrist—extended just a half inch too far—and then drives his knee into my ribs.
Pain explodes in starbursts behind my eyes.
But pain is the thing I know best.
We break apart and I swallow it down, ignoring the waves of heat radiating in my side, considering him as we both stalk in slow circles around each other.
“You like knives, pet?” He holds up his hands, and the fingers crack and extend, transforming into enormous claws. For a second, his pupils elongate and then he shivers and restrains the curse still riding him. “Want to play with these?”
In answer, I twirl the pair of knives in my hands.
I’ve spent the past few weeks as we searched for Andraste cataloguing every move he made in battle, knowing that this moment was going to come. Eventually.
And my threat assessment is: Uncertain.
Lysander moves with flawless precision, muscles bunching and flowing from one move to the next. I’ve always had the gift of being able to predict which move will come next—to see the shift in weight and glimpse the exact blow the bastard will hammer at me, but Lysander’s like no one else I’ve ever encountered.
He’s shockingly fast.
Far stronger than expected. Ambidextrous.
