Total pages in book: 241
Estimated words: 229266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1146(@200wpm)___ 917(@250wpm)___ 764(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 229266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1146(@200wpm)___ 917(@250wpm)___ 764(@300wpm)
“Poppy,” he started. “As you know, it’s been a long day and night. And while I’m relieved to see that you didn’t manage to evade Delano, and despite that I think you look rather adorable in that gown, holding that tiny, little knife—”
I threw the blade, aiming for his head just like he’d told me to do.
Stepping aside, Casteel snatched the weapon out of the air. I knew how fast he was, but it was still shocking to see how quick he could be. It stole my breath even as an infuriating voice whispered in the back of my mind that I had known he’d easily avoid the knife.
A curse hissed through his teeth as his fingers closed around the blade. Blood trickled between his fingers, and I didn’t feel even a kernel of guilt as he stared at his hand. Well, perhaps there was a tiny bit of remorse—no larger than the size of a gnat, though. He hadn’t done anything at the exact moment in time to truly earn a knife being thrown at his face, but I was sure he would be more than deserving in a few minutes.
Slowly, he opened his fingers, dropping the knife to the floor. The blood-soaked blade clanged off the wood. “That is the second time you’ve drawn blood tonight.” He looked over at me. A tense moment passed, and he then raised one dark brow. “You’re so incredibly violent.”
“Only around you,” I shot back.
His lips curled into a half-grin, revealing the dimple in his right cheek. “Now, you know that’s not true at all.” Walking toward the basin just inside the bathing chamber, he washed his hand. “But you know what is true?”
My jaw ached from how tightly I was clenching it as I told myself not to ask. Maybe if I ignored him, he’d go away. Highly unlikely, but one could always hope.
Casteel looked over his shoulder at me, waiting.
Frustration burned through me. “What?” I demanded. “What’s true?”
He smiled then, a real one. Both dimples were on full display, and they weren’t the only thing. No longer needing to hide what he was behind a tight-lipped smile, there was a hint of fangs. My breath hitched in my throat. I didn’t know if it was the fangs or the dimples. Or the genuine warmth in his smile—and I’d seen all his smiles to know which ones were real: The half-curl of his lips that said he was amused. The predatory one that reminded me of a large cat whose prey had made a foolish mistake. The cold curve to his mouth that never reached his eyes. The twist of a grin full of barely banked violence that was a promise of bloodshed. Those smiles may not have been directed at me, not even tonight when we squared off in the woods. But I’d seen them all.
But this was the kind of expression that softened the striking lines of his face and turned his eyes from cool amber to warm honey. And to me, it was the most dangerous of all his smiles. He wasn’t mad I’d thrown a knife at him and made him bleed, but warning bells went off nonetheless. These kinds of smiles begged for me to forget reality and all the lies and blood that had been shed.
They made me think of him as Hawke.
Instinct triggered self-preservation even as his smile tugged at my foolish heart, and the sensation slid lower, spiraling tight.
Casteel turned to me, his hand open. There was no blood. No wound except for a faint pink line across the center of his palm. “It still turns me on, Princess.”
I exhaled a shrill breath. “I feel like I’ve said this a hundred times, but it needs to be said again. There’s something wrong with you.”
He lifted his shoulder in a half-shrug. “Some believe there’s something wrong with all of us, and I tend to believe that.”
“I didn’t realize you were so philosophical.” I glanced at the knife on the floor while he emptied the basin into a bucket. There was no way he’d forgotten that I had it, or that it lay there now. Was he waiting to see what I would do?
“There’s a lot you don’t realize about me,” he replied, returning to the bedchamber to retrieve the pitcher of water warmed by the fireplace. “I cannot wait to return home, to the land where all you need to do for hot water is turn a faucet handle.”
“I—what?” I turned to him. “What do you mean?”
The half-grin was back. “In Atlantia, all homes have running hot water that goes straight to their tubs and sinks.”
“You lie.”
He sent me a look as he placed the pitcher on the stand beside the basin. “Why would I lie about something like that?”
“Because you’re a liar?” I reasoned.