Page 60 of Slayer

He holds me there, steady, before lifting his eyes to mine. “I could smell you earlier.” His thumb brushes over the deep cut. The action feels vulnerable and invasive, but I still can’t seem to draw myself away. Blood stains his skin as he slowly brings his fingers together. “Your blood, little ember,” he murmurs, studying it. “Remarkable.”

Oh. So he isn’t just a healer. There’s something darker in him, something that understands bloodlust the way I do. His touch feels like lightning crackling beneath my skin.

He presses his glowing palm to the wound. Warmth floods through me, too much, too intimate. Our eyes lock, his burning gold, soft and dangerous all at once.

“I can’t have you dripping poisonous blood on my couch, now can I?”

I open my mouth to hurl an insult at him, but the words halt in my throat at the sight of the gash vanishing from my skin as if it had never existed.

“Poisonous?” I ask, still half-shocked.

“Yes,” he says calmly. “What was it that cut you?”

“The thorn bushes outside the castle.”

“Hm,” he continues with his all-knowing smile. “That would be it. The thorns surrounding the grounds are laced with poison. My dear father prefers his defenses subtle, but painful.”

Of course he does.

“You could feel the poison?” I ask.

“I can.” His tone remains even. “But it doesn’t matter.” He’s still kneeling in front of me, close enough to touch.

“It does matter,” I counter. “When you heal someone, you absorb part of their pain. I read about it. You’re slowly killing yourself in the process.” I watch his eyes carefully widen in surprise, and I realize how much I’ve given up by admitting my knowledge of healers. He knows I’ve been curious about him, eager even.

A small smile tugs at his mouth as his gaze drifts back to my thigh. His thumb traces slowly over the place where the gash once was. “You’ve done your research,” he murmurs. “Not many witness healing hands anymore. We’re said to be myths.”

He moves back to the couch, settling into it with a contemplative sigh.

“What else are you?” My eyes narrow, searching him.

“What am I?” he repeats softly. His gaze drops, fingers plucking a strand of my curled black hair from his pants. He studies it for a moment too long before setting it carefully on the table like he intends to keep it. I grit my teeth.

“Well,” he says at last, lifting his eyes back to mine, “I suppose you have all the time in the world to figure that out.” Then, quieter and colder: “But for now, you know me as the prince.” A pause. “The one who saved your life. The one who tended to you for weeks.” His smile sharpens. “And the one you still owe.”

“About that—”

“No need.” Roman lifts a hand, cutting me off with effortless authority. My body goes rigid. “I was happy to help.”

I nod, teeth sinking into my lower lip. “Why?” The question slips out before I can stop it. Why would he help me?

Is it maybe because he knows having a powerful shifter on his side could enable his plans to succeed? Does he need eyes on Magda, or help with pirates? Or could it be because of this odd feeling in my heart? A feeling I can’t quite pinpoint yet. Maybe he feels it too.

“Because, little ember,” he says as he leans forward, eyes burning with something far more dangerous than kindness, “you are a very vital part of my plans. My revolution.”

My heart drops. I wanted him to say something else, and it bothers me that I want more from him. “Burn the throne,” he continues. “It isn’t just a saying. It’s hope.” His voice drops, sharpened with conviction. “And I intend to do it, you know. Rewrite history.”

Maddoc said the same exact words to me. Unease rakes up my spine. I shift slightly.

“How,” he asks quietly, almost thoughtfully, “could a king who despises magic rule a world absolutely infested with it?” The silence that follows is deliberate, as if he’s waiting for me to say something. I refuse and wait for him to finish his thought.

“You are rare,” he says. “A shifter, siren, slayer…” His eyes lock onto mine with unnerving intensity as he strips me bare of all my secrets. “But what else are you hiding?”

“Nothing more.” The words come out firm and immediate. There’s nothing left for him to unveil, after all. After hiding all that I am for so long, someone finally knows. And I feel oddly safe, comfortable even, with him holding my life in his glowing hands. “You listed all that I am.” All that I know I am.

“I don’t believe that for a second.” His intense glare holds, flickering with anticipation. “I think you’re so much more. And I’m very much looking forward to uncovering it. All of it.”

I roll my eyes at his insinuation, but the fire in my heart ignites at the thought against my better judgment. “Anyway,” I say, changing to the subject that I still don’t have the answers to, “you saved me because I’m part of your plans?” A familiar bitterness coils in my chest. A bargaining chip. Again. Being used for my strength, just like at the Academy under Silas’s rule.