Page 34 of The First Scar
I evened my breathing and slowly crept my hand towards the knife sheathed at my thigh, inching toward the hilt.
"Mmmm, I wouldn’t choose that one," he purred against the shell of my ear. "That dagger at your left thigh. You shifted your weight toward it the moment I pinned you." His fingers curled around my throat, tilting my head. "Try the one at your lower back. You'd get two inches closer before I could stop you."
Arrogant. Insufferable. Bastard.
"You could also try the headbutt again." His voice dropped, velvet over gravel. "But I learn from my mistakes. Do you?"
"Didn't feel like a mistake," I hissed against his palm. "Felt like your nose cracking under my skull."
His torso vibrated against my back. A laugh. Sordid, dark, and completely inappropriate for a fae holding a blade to someone's throat.
"Sloppy angle," he murmured. "You telegraphed it with your shoulders. If I hadn't been distracted, you'd have shattered your own orbital bone."
"And yet." I bared my teeth against his hand. "You bled. I didn't."
The steel shifted—a hair's breadth, barely a whisper of movement—and suddenly the flat of it lay against the curve of my neck instead of the edge. Not a threat. A caress. My pulse kicked hard enough that he must have felt it through the steel.
"Don't worry, Scar-Bearer." His mouth was close enough to my ear that every word had a shape. "You'll get your turn to bleed."
My breath caught and I bit my lip. Hard.
Get your shit together.
My fingers found the knife at my lower back. I ripped it free and drove it backward into his kidney.
His hand caught my wrist. Mid-strike. The dagger frozen an inch from his side.
"There she is." His voice curled with approval. "I was wondering when you'd stop playing helpless."
His fingers dug into my wrist. Letting me feel how easily he could control it.
"Cute," I spat.
"Predictable." He twisted my arm, forcing the blade away from his body. "You always go for the ribs. Try the femoral next time. Messier, but harder to block."
"Thanks for the tip. I'll use it when I gut you."
"You can't run forever." His breath was warm against my neck. "You can't hide. Your marks won't let you—every time you try to subdue them, they scream louder. And every hunter in Velmyra is listening."
He was right. That bastard.
"What do you want?" The words came out muffled and pathetic against his palm.
His laugh was low and humorless.
"Nothing you're ready to give." His grip loosened—just a fraction. "Yet."
And then—
He let go.
I spun, daggers already in my hands, steel flashing in the searchlight's distant glow. I cocked my arm to throw—
He was gone.
Just... gone. The rooftop empty, the shadows undisturbed, as if he'd never been there at all. Only the phantom pressure of his hand on my mouth and the ghost of his blade at my throat remained, burning like a brand.
I stood there, chest heaving, daggers sweating in my grip.
