His gaze stops right where I am and he gets a smug-ass look on his face, but that’s his look most of the time. I’ve nearly decided that while he might sense a disturbance in the night up here, he can’t actually see me when he inclines his head in that arrogant, imperial way so characteristic of the dickhead.
Rage washes over me, thick and intense and smothering, and for a few seconds I drift in a black place where everything’s icy and wasted and evil and I like it. I’m glad I’m going Unseelie prince. I say bring on the power.
I say let there be war.
I throw back my head and slide a mane of hair over my shoulders. Cutting it doesn’t do a bloody thing. I sleep, I wake up, it’s there again. I turn my face up to the moon and inhale greedily. I want to drop to all fours and bay like a wild thing drunk on being hungry and strong, a beast that could fuck for days without cease if I could only find something that could take it as hard and long as I can give it. I want to chime to the moon in Unseelie, and hear it chime back. I can smell death in the city, everywhere, and it’s intoxicating. I can smell need and sex and hunger and it’s so bloody sweet—humanity ripe for the plucking and playing and eating! I shift my dick in my jeans. It’s painfully hard. And the Earth is round.
I look back down, my eyes narrow. My boots are crusted with ice. The roof has gone white in a circle of snow and glittering ice in a fifteen-foot radius around me. I lope lightly along the edge of the roof, crunching snow, following as they go around back. This is going to be so much easier when I don’t have to use my feet.
He isn’t what he’s pretending to be with her.
I watch him all the time. I’m going to be there when he stops pretending. I’m going to be her bulletproof vest, her shield, her fallen fucking angel whether she wants one or not. He’s pretending he’s almost human. He’s no more human than me. He’s pretending to be nice, like he’s safe to be around, like he doesn’t have fangs for a reason. He’s pretending the term the “Gavel Effect” wasn’t coined about him, meaning you’re fine with him. Right up until you’re not.
Right up until you’re dead.
The devil in a businessman’s suit, he bides his time, gathers information, processes it, and when he makes a decision, the gavel falls and everyone that pissed him off or offended him or just breathed wrong dies.
She won’t be given a stay of execution. No one gets one. The only things that matter to him are others of his kind.
She thinks he’s not an animal like Barrons. That he’s more civilized. She’s right, he is more polished. But it only makes him more dangerous. With Barrons you expect to get fucked up royally. With Ryodan you don’t see it coming.
He’s treating her like she’s fourteen and he’s a normal adult, acting like he’s taken her under his wing. Like he needs her detecting skills, same as Barrons did to Mac, and she’s falling for it, same as Mac. He’s lining up his dominoes, so they fall more easily when he feels like pushing them over, conserving energy so he doesn’t have to hunt her when he’s ready to kill her.
A bastard like him has one use for women. And she’s not old enough. Yet. I can’t decide which would be worse, if he killed her before she was old enough or waited and made her one of his endless string of women.
She’s not that kind of girl, the endless string type. You get a shot at something like her once in a lifetime. And if you screw it up there’s a special place in hell for you.
She breaks away from him suddenly and stomps off ahead. She’s pissed. I smile.
I pull out my knife, twist my arm over my shoulder and scratch my back with it. Blood trickles. I sigh with relief, but it doesn’t last long. Sleeping is a real bitch. My back itches all the time and human drugs don’t work on me. I twist to get a better scratch.
My blade hits bone with a dull clunk. I saw at it with the serrated tip of the blade but can’t get the angle right. I don’t have any friends that are glad to see me, nobody to lend a helping hand. I tried to get Dad to cut them out of my back. He said they’re attached to my spine and it would kill me. I don’t believe that. Nothing kills me. They itch. I want them gone almost as much as I’m beginning to want them.
Fucking wings.
Funny how things work out. Dani killed an Unseelie prince to save Mac, and I end up turning into the replacement for the prince Dani killed. But it’s not the lass’s fault. It’s Mac’s. For needing saving. Later, for forcing me to eat something I would never have eaten if I’d been in my right mind.