Page 6 of Storm of Shadows
I suck more desperately at the air, screaming as my injured ribs expand, pain striking through my body.
Whoever has me pinned to the ground doesn’t react. Their mouth hovers by my right ear, and their moist breath whistles over my skin.
They’re much, much bigger than me, their scent woody and masculine, like the forest at night. Menacing, dark, enticing.
I attempt to shuffle from underneath them, but they hold me locked to the ground with their sizable frame.
“What’s your name?”
A man. His voice is deep and polished, and if I hadn’t guessed before, I know it now.
A shadow weaver.
“None of your fucking business,” I spit, struggling against him. “Get the fuck off me.”
“You think wriggling your ass against my cock is going to encourage me to get off you?” he says, with a hint of amusement.
I freeze.
Don’t provoke the monsters. Don’t give them what they want.
He curls a loose strand of hair around my ear. “Come on now, tell me your name.”
I stare down at the hard earth, drops of moisture clinging to the brittle grass. I can feel the beat of his rapid heart pounding against me.
I say nothing.
He huffs a little, shifts his weight, and flips me right over so I’m lying on my back and staring right up at him, my hands pinned to the earth, his body caged over mine.
I jolt.
It’s the boy from the platform.
Up close, his eyes are such a soft, pale blue they’re almost translucent, almost silver, like the moon on a cool, clear evening. His skin is pale too and the lines of his face so sharp, so defined, they look as if they were carved from marble.
Around him the air crackles with electricity. His magic.
I wonder what power he possesses. I wonder what he can do.
I wonder what the hell he’s going to do to me.
The thought has me struggling under him, attempting to break loose. But speed has always been my asset, not strength. I’m a tiny, pathetic weed compared to him. He pins my hands above my head and leans into me, his face mere millimeters from mine, his breath warm as it dances across my face.
He doesn’t ask me my name again, instead he stares right into my eyes, like he did before, like he’s trying to read my soul. It’s so intense, my cheeks run warm, and I’m forced to turn my head away from him.
“How did you get that?” he asks, his voice less playful than before.
“Wh-wh-what?” I say, unable to help but peer back up at him.
“The black eye,” he snarls, “the cut on your cheek.”
I nearly add the bruised ribs to his list, but I hold my tongue. It’s clear I disgust him. Weak, pathetic, easy prey. He probably saw that on the platform and that’s why he chased me. Although, it seems dumb to me. It’s a done-deal which quarter he’ll be assigned. Only shadow weavers make it to Onyx Quarter. Yet, he’s chosen to scupper his chance of securing easy points by following me in the wrong direction. Why?
“Who did this to you?” he asks.
Again, I don’t reply. What’s he going to do with the name? Congratulate the dude? Ask him to be his best friend? Yeah, Stanley’s brute strength and large fists already give him enough advantages in this place. I’m not about to gift him a powerful new friend.
I stare over the dude’s shoulder, letting my passive expression swamp my face.
