CHAPTER 94: NINETY FOUR

Valka

For hours, my heart and head turmoils, fighting against the other. So maybe I cry a little. Because I don’t know or understand what he is talking about, but the pain, the anger, I feel it thick in the bond.

I wait for him, so we can talk about it. Because I’m done waiting, like Margot suggested. If I was a bitch, I want to know. If I was mean and vile like Lucien says I was, I want to know.

But he doesn’t return at all that night, leaving me out there, freezing my butt off when the fire eventually died out. Between the strange howls, hoots and twisting everytime a branch so much as cracked, I couldn’t get any sleep.

By the time dawn creeps in slowly, I am dressed. And pissed. Slightly worried.

Just when I decide to go look for my husband, he shows up, clad in fresh clothes--a deep maroon shirt with a high collar, leather black pants tucked into the sole of his boots and a black cloak. His hair is slightly damp from a bath and his face unapologetically indifferent, like the chaos and the primal energy coiling in the air can’t touch him.

He doesn’t even spare me one glance before loosening grabbing the sacks and loading them atop the horse once more.

"Where were you?"

No response. Just the slight tick in his jaw as he runs his fingers through the horse’s mane, whispering something under his breath that makes the animal snicker. He pulls an apple from the rucksack, feeding it.

"I waited for you," I try again, throat thick with anger and frustration.

He casts me a sidelong glance, cold as the ice in his veins. "Whatever for?"

"To talk, Lucien," I snap. "There’s so much here to address, history to uncover and if necessary, apologies to be given. I thought you would be open to a conversation. But you left me here! Alone! Ran off with your tail between your legs like a coward."

Violet eyes glaze over, his face unflinching. The deadly temperature takes a plunge. "I’m not in the mood for your childish tantrums, Valka." He grips the horses reins and begins leading it through the clearing.

"Childish..." I gasp, heat going all the way to my head. "I’m childish? I’m not the one making up stories and getting mad when people don’t believe them."

He turns sharply, shoulders tense, his indifferent facade cracking. "Stories?"

"Yes! Stories!" Air leaves my lungs in an angry whoosh. "I cannot, for the life of me, remember a single thing, now matter how hard I try. All I have left to go off of is what I know. And what I do know and remember as vividly as every nightmare is you killing me every time I accidentally walked into your dreams. You tried to kill me when we met. You shot an arrow for my head and my friend died because of it. You punched me. Broke my shoulder. You snapped every bone in my body and made me crawl and plead for life. You humiliated me and reveled in it. Placed a noose around my neck and yanked me by it for days. And you would’ve killed me if I was of no use to you, the same way you killed the rest of the prisoners."

I lift my chin, anger and annoyance and loathing fueling me. "You reminded me time after time again that I was nothing but a tool. And overnight, you switch. You suddenly want me. You suddenly care about me. And I’m supposed to just take your word that it’s all because of a past that I don’t remember. I’m supposed to be a stupid, trusting fool, melting like butter in your hands and eating the words right out of your mouth, no?"

Shadows seem to move about him, his expression shifting into something I cannot read. Not much of anger, but it’s still there, in the way he watches me. In the pure, ancient and potent scent of danger and musk rolling off him. It prickles my skin, set my teeth on edge and makes me want to both flee and sink my nails into him.

"Are you finished?"

My mouth opens. And closes. The distinct expression of a fish gaping for air. My temper surges hard and fast, and I cross the space and shove at his chest. "You are a prick. And I can’t stand you."

He catches my wrist before I can shove at him again, and his eyes gleam with predatory amusement in the dim light of dawn. He steps out of the way before I can kick his shin. He predicts my third strike, shoving me hard against the nearest tree trunk.

Sometimes, I forget how old he is. As old as dirt. It shows in moments like this. That unnerving stillness. The way he seems to know where I’ll step before I move. Raw, animalistic magnetism. He wears it like second skin and it infuriates me, because he knows.

He knows exactly how dangerous he is. Knows the effect he has on me. And that’s the worst part. Because that knowledge, that casual arrogance, it does something to me. A traitorous heat curls low in my belly, warring violently with the instinctive urge to slap him. Or run.

"The only other person alive who talks to me the way you do is my grandmother," he says, voice low and smooth, scraping along my nerves. "And even she has limits. Do you enjoy it when I do this? Hold you down? Placate you? Is that why you enjoy pissing me the fuck off? Does it get you excited, maybe? Personally, I find it... stimulating."

A shiver, unbidden, traces its way down my spine. I hate that he could evoke it. "Stop it."

The amusement deepened, laced with something darker. Possessive. "I have no interest in proving that I am no liar. Frankly, I find it insulting that you think I would lie or manipulate your situation to keep you around. You’re already mine. So that would be rather dull, wouldn’t it?"

"I am not--"

"Not mine?" he contemplates the words and scowls, displeasure stricken across his face. "This is the last time we have that particular argument. I’ve grown tired of hearing it. And every time you look me in the eye and repeat that to me, this will happen. A reminder that I am, in fact, the very center of your universe. And though your mind doesn’t remember it, your body does."

He lets the words sink in for a moment and my breath hitches at the intention in his eyes.

"Let go." The command sounds weak. I try to twist free, digging my heels into the soft earth. His grip tightens, not enough to hurt. Just enough to demonstrate the futility. He uses his hold to pull me closer, until I am forced to meet a dark stare. Blackened.

"No," he breathes and the single syllable vibrates with finality.

Panic, sharp and sudden, flares alongside the unwanted heat. The strength in him is terrifying, effortless as he moves, then, fluid and deadly. One boot hooked behind my ankle. A twist. A controlled fall.

I gasp as my back hits the soft, damp earth, the impact knocking the breath from my lungs. Pine needles prick through my shirt. Before I can even draw breath to curse him, his weight settles over me. Not crushing, but overwhelming. Pinning my hips, trapping my wrists above her head with one large hand. His other hand, tracing a path down the side of my face.

My heart hammers against my ribs like a trapped bird, a frantic counterpoint to his calculating calmness. I strain against him, muscles screaming, but it is useless. He is stone, immovable.

His fingers trailed the curve of my jaw, a mockery of a caress. Down the column of my exposed throat. He pauses where my pulse pounds wildly against his fingertip. "Afraid?" he murmurs, thumbing the frantic flutter. "Or excited?"

My defiance falters. "Fuck you."

His chuckle is a dark, velvety thing, sending a fresh wave of heat pooling between my legs. "Oh, we’ll get there."