Page 60 of Storm of Shadows
Except he doesn’t look angry, he looks pretty amused.
“Did your little temper tantrum wear you out, sweetheart?” he says, still stroking my cheek.
I snap up to sitting and jerk my head away from his hand.
“It wasn’t a temper tantrum,” I snarl.
“Looks like it to me,” he says, jerking his head towards all the mess I’ve caused.
I smile sweetly at him. “Just a little gift from me to you, to thank you for your wonderful hospitality.”
“Very thoughtful of you, sweetheart. I understand this is how you may like things back in Slate Quarter, but I preferred it the way it was.”
He sweeps his hand in the direction of the room, and just like before shadows race from his fingertips, curling across the roomand engulfing the mess of smashed-up plates, bowls, cups and glasses.
I watch in amazement as the shadows weave the destruction back together, piling the plates neatly on top of one another, stacking the glasses, and returning everything to their shelves.
“Ahhh, and I see you did enjoy our food.” My cheeks burn in annoyance. “You’re free to help yourself to anything in the pantry any time you like.”
“No, thank you,” I say. I swing my legs to the floor, ignoring the way my knees brush against his. “I’m going home.”
“Not yet,” he says, grabbing ahold of my wrist, his fingers curling around my skin, his magic making it tingle. Tingles that race right up my arm into my chest and down into my core. Those are tingles, right?
Despite myself, I freeze.
“I have something for you,” he says.
“I don’t want anything of yours. In fact …” I reach into the pocket of Clare’s coat and pull out his watch, thrusting it at him.
He takes it, examines it and then straps it back onto his wrist without comment.
“It’s not mine,” he says. “It’s a gift.”
“I don’t want …” My words fade away as he reaches into the pocket of his pants and, tantalizingly slowly, pulls out a golden collar.
It possesses a shine, a light, of its own, the threads expertly and intricately woven and the effect both delicate and dazzling.
It’s more beautiful than any of the collars worn by the other thralls. A million times more beautiful. My fingers itch to reach out and touch it – to stroke my fingertips down the exquisite threads.
But it’s a trap. One I don’t intend to walk into. He can offer me all the gold and jewels in the realm and I would still refuse to be his, to be theirs.
They are my enemy.
“I don’t want it,” I tell him, tearing my eyes away from it.
“Really?” he says with sarcasm, “because you seem to like it.”
“You’re mistaken.”
“You don’t like the way it looks.” He draws it over his hands and it slithers like a grass snake. “It was made by the finest craftsmen in Onyx Quarter. It’s made from the threads of velvet silkworms.”
“Then give it to someone else.”
“It’s meant for our thrall. For you.” He holds it up to my throat and once again I can’t resist the temptation to let it rest there, his touch electric against my skin, the collar warm and seductive. His eyes fall dark. “That looks damn good,” he growls.
My heart beats ferociously in my chest. The warmth and the magic from his body is palatable and he smells of orange and cedar. A scent so different from everything back home.
My cheeks warm, the beat of my heart jumps to my throat. It would be so easy to close my eyes and let him tie this collar around my neck.
