Page 64 of Wolf of Ashes
He could have easily punched his fist into my exposed back, but he doesn’t aim any hits at my body, reaching for my face yet again, his fingers once more narrowly missing the side of my mask.
It dawns on me that his primary intention might be to un-mask me, rather than to bludgeon me to death.
Hell, I wouldn’t care if he saw my face, but, dammit, the brightness of his body would be fucking unbearable for my sensitive eyes.
I leap backward, trying to put some space between us, baring my teeth at him.
Off to the side, Diavolo casts me an alarmed glance. He’s holding his own against Vanguard, who wields his sword expertly but ineffectively, since the blade simply sails through Diavolo’s body.
Maybe Diavolo thinks he should have fought Jonah, since he’s taken on a smoky form and all, but I shoot him adon’t-you-fucking-dare-get-involved-in-my-fightglare.
I can handle Jonah.
After all, the cuts I’ve left on his body have yet to heal. Molten lava bleeds from them. Although he doesn’t seem the least bit worried about the wounds.
I leap toward him again, ready to fight dirty, preparing to deliver a series of cuts to his stomach, chest, and shoulders.
He moves as fast as I do, switching tactics so quickly that my head spins. Taking the cuts I inflict first on his chest, his hands wrap around my shoulders, his touch searing my skin.
He wrenches me off my feet and shoves me down onto the surface of the nearest table. I smack into it, my thoughts whirling, since it’s fucking unpleasant to be thrown down like that.
The moment I hit the surface, he lets go of me. His hands fly back from me, a confusing move, but my damn instincts drive me upward, telling me to get off the table as fast as I can.
He uses my upward momentum against me.
His hand closes over the front of my face and the mask tears away from me.
A scream wrenches out of me. Not because of the heat that burned across my shoulders when he threw me down or across my face when he snatched my mask, but because of the bright light now filling my eyes.
I squeeze them shut, hoping my other senses will save me from being incinerated. I’m surprised he didn’t burn me to a crisp when he dumped me on the table.
I sense the movement of air above me a split second before his hands close around my shoulders again. I push back, but damn, he’s strong.
He shoves me back to the table, and I brace for burning pain and death.
I’m surprised when neither happens.
His voice snarls close to my ear. “Who are you?”
I’m aware that he’s leaning over me and the volume of his voice means his face must be inches from mine. My legs are on either side of his hips and he’s taking a real risk that I won’t drive my claws into his sides since he hasn’t immobilized my arms, other than to pin my shoulders.
Maybe he thinks I won’t risk burning myself.
I crack open my eyes the barest slit, side-eyeing his hands, which have returned to normal where he holds me. No more burning flames around them, and on top of that, the brightness of his body has decreased. All of which would explain why I’m not burning to a crisp and screaming in agony right now. Even so, every other part of him that hovers only inches from my body remains scorching hot and faint lines of lava threaten to ignite again.
If I make contact, I’m sure I’ll risk some nasty burns.
“Give me back my mask,” I growl. “It’s too fucking bright without it.”
His forehead creases. Just the tiniest. I suppose he thought I would worry about my identity, not my eyesight.
A gleaming smile forms on his lips. “Too late. It’s ashes now.”
I curse beneath my breath, but his smile only grows.
“I seem to have an unfair advantage now,” he says.
“Good for you,” I snap. “It won’t last long.”
