Page 62 of Summoned
“On your knees.” Gaetano’s voice cracks like a whip down my spine.
“What…?” I look up at him, searching for a trace of amusement in his expression. A sign that he’s joking.
There’s none.
Another icy wave crashes through me.
“I saidon your knees, Baroness.”
My heart clenches in a painful spasm.Not again! Not like sixth grade…
Gaetano’s eyes blaze with raw fire. Everything else about him—his words, his expression, his stance—is carved from stone. It’s that ruthlessness in him that compels me to obey.
My pride bleeds like a wounded beast, my heart hammers in a wild, erratic rhythm. I bend my legs and lower myself into the dirt. The hard ground presses into my skin, just as cruel and unyielding as Gaetano himself.
It’s tempting to cast my gaze down, if only to avoid seeing the satisfaction on his face. But I’m not that girl. I’mnot.I grit my teeth, willing myself to raise my head, to show him I’m not afraid. And then—
A breeze snakes past my body, reminding me how exposed I am. The whisper of distant leaves becomes an echo of jeers. My vision blurs, my ears buzz. My surroundings fade, replaced by the schoolyard from my youth, during the long break between classes. The air clogs my lungs as the ghosts of the girls close in around me.
‘Freak.’
‘Ugly.’
The words are just whispers, but they cut deeper than knives because they’re the truth. I am all those things. And more—I’m a coward. My father told me so himself. If I’d been stronger, I’d have fought back. But here I am, not fighting. Once again on the ground, with them above me.
A victimagain.
Someone yanks the backpack off my shoulders and dumps it. My pencils scatter across the floor, and my sketchbook opens at my knees. And then my drawings, the one thing that ever gave me purpose, are torn into pieces…
“Nicole.”
A lump rises in my throat. This time, the tears are stronger than my will.
Firm fingers grip my chin. In my periphery, I see something black—serpents coiling around my face.
“Nicole, look at me.”
Gaetano’s deep, dark voice anchors me in the moment. My vision clears and sharpens. The black serpents are nothing more than the tattoos on his fingers. For some inexplicable, absurd reason, warmth floods through me.
Taking a breath, I force myself to meet his gaze. A faint furrow creases his brow. No trace of the smugness I was so certain would be there, either.
Maybe he finally understands that the defiant Baroness is nothing but a fabrication. AndHarvest 290, Nicole, is a weakling.
“Well, fine,” I say. “You win. I’m on my knees. I’m humiliated. I’m naked. Clearly, I have no chance against a witcher. So go ahead. Take my soul and get it over with already.”
The ice in him cracks. His eyes trail down my body as if I’m no longer just a woman, but something crafted purely for his view. The glint in them sharpens, locking me in those dark irises.
“Baroness, this is just the beginning.” His words carry a darkness. A curse, perhaps.
My entire body stiffens. But it’s Gaetano’s next action that sends my stomach reeling. He presses his index againsthis chest. I follow the movement, more on edge than before.
My throat constricts when his finger sinks into the wound, and blood begins to flow again. “What… are you doing?”
The bloodstained finger hovers in front of my face, then lowers to touch my forehead. It begins to move, as if he’s writing. Or drawing.
I swear my heart ceases to beat. Gaetano towers above my kneeling form, dressed in black, the blade still resting in his free hand, while he marks me. His energy is so intense, so hypnotic, that for a moment, I forget my humiliation and am consumed by the need to understand what he’s doing.
He lifts his finger and studies my forehead. “Now everyone will know that you belong to me.”
