Page 14 of Queen of Whispers and Mist

The High Lord had gotten to her. Used his brainwashing magic to ensure his puppet finished the job she’d failed to do that afternoon.

It was only years of finely honed battle instincts that had him ducking away in time. “You don’t want to do this, killer,” he said, hands up as he tried to appeal to the woman trapped within an evil man’s prison of lies.

She raised a brow. “Don’t I? Funny, sure feels like it.” She took another swipe and he another large step back.

“Trust me, kitten. You really don’t.”

“Well, only one way to find out. Let’s test the theory.” Faster than he could even track, she had a second blade in her hand and was throwing it.

Mother’s tits, where had that one come from?

A well-timed blast of his Air knocked the blade off its course, saving him from a haircut he couldn’t afford.

“I, for one, am certain the sight of you bleeding out on this dreadful rug will help me sleep like a babe.”

He spared a glance at the offending item. It really was dreadful, a ghastly mix of olive green and piss yellow. He could see why she thought an exsanguinated corpse would be an improvement. Blood had a way of hiding all manner of sins. As did death, for that matter.

“If you’re that set on redecorating, perhaps we can find someone—”

He grunted and lunged to the side as she made another series of attacks, the rush of air beside his face telling him he almost hadn’t been quick enough that time. He didn’t get the impression she was toying with him, not like their battle earlier. It was truly luck and years of practice keeping him a mere half-step ahead of her.

The realization sat like lead in his gut.

She was striking to kill. She honestly meant to end him.

“Will I never catch a fucking break?” he growled, hating that while he’d been locked in here daydreaming like a lovesick fool, she’d been plotting his murder. Perhaps not the real her, but a version of her. What a kick to the balls that was. He should have known better. Clearly, he was destined to be miserable and alone. Or locked in a never-ending death match with the love of his life.

“You can catch this,” Shadow crooned, delivering a series of blows so wickedly fast he didn’t manage to escape them all.

He let out a hiss of pain as a thin strip of blood streaked across his chest. “Hey! That’s my best shirt,” he snarled, genuinely more offended about the ruined garment than his injury. Scars were a testament to battles waged and won. Warriors earned their scars. It was only right to wear them with pride. Shirts his size, however, were few and far between. And they cost a damned arm and leg in the rare instance he could find one.

“That so? Well then, I’ll be sure to bury you in it,” she returned sweetly.

He’d heard of star-crossed lovers, but this was fucking next level. Somewhere out there, fate had to be howling with laughter at him. He didn’t know what he’d done to earn such devoted and relentless attention, but he would gladly relinquish the honor.

They’d gone nearly the length of the room in his retreat, and it was time to put an end to this. She had no intention of letting him walk out of here alive, and he had no intention of dying. Or leaving without her. Only one of them was going to get their way, and he was beyond tired of it not being him.

Recalling his earlier inventory and the placement of possible weapons throughout the room, as well as the two possible exits, he crafted a plan. It wasn’t a very good plan, mind you, but what was the point in worrying about it when all his best, most well-thought-out strategies seemed to turn to shit anyway? Perhaps winging it was the answer.

Luckily for him, Shadow was so single-minded in her attempt to gut him that she didn’t realize he was guiding her movements. For each lunge or flèche she made, he would time his next steps, essentially leading them in a violent dance to the balcony. Once the first brush of wind hit his battle-warmed skin, he knew the dance was at its end.

“Nowhere left for you to run, Butcher. Unless you rather topple over the ledge and save me the cleanup.”

“Or perhaps we could call a ceasefire and do a little stargazing instead?”

Shadow rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched. He knew she was enjoying the fight, that it was rare she ever had to work overly hard for a kill. He knew it, because were their positions reversed, he’d be thinking the same. Facing off against a true equal made your blood sing in your veins.

This time when she came at him, he was ready. Spinning to the side, he threw out his hand, simultaneously calling on his Air magic to aid him once more. The candlestick he’d spotted earlier sailed across the room and straight into his outstretched palm. As he’d hoped, the decoration was thick and heavy, made of some expensive metal, he was sure. Wasting no time, he parried Shadow’s next strike, slapping her dagger from her hand and swinging the candlestick down with all his considerable might.

She clattered to the ground at the same time as her blade.

“It actually worked,” he said stupidly, breathing hard as he stared down at her unconscious form. With the way everything else had been going, he really hadn’t been sure it would. “Well, genius, what’s next?”

Knowing time was one luxury he didn’t have, Ronan glanced around the room once more, seeking inspiration. The only way out of here with a nearly lifeless body was over the balcony. Getting down wouldn’t be a problem. They were high up, but he was an experienced climber, and he distinctly remembered the palace’s walls being textured. There would be hand and footholds aplenty. The bigger issue would be keeping Shadow’s body secure for the descent.

“Think... think,” he grumbled, his heart rate spiking with every second they remained still. The thick curtains hanging around the four-poster bed caught his eye. He took a quick peek at her slumbering form and then back to the strips of cloth.

“That’ll do.”

---