Series: Lords of Rathe Series by Meagan Brandy
Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 98580 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 493(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98580 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 493(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
This time my fingers find their way up to the back of his neck, forcing him down to my level. His hair brushes the tip of my nose and I have to hold my breath a few seconds to recollect myself. Unlike Legend, Knight’s cologne isn’t too strong. It’s a whisper of threats laced with rose, oud, and mountain ash.
“You may be my mate, but I will never be yours.” I push away from him, having had enough of whatever this bullshit of a night was. How's that. The first night of this Yemon and I’ve already killed someone and almost fucked my mate’s brother.
Wish it wasn’t an almost so I could at least feel better about the fact that tonight, I’m sure, Knight will be taking someone else back to his bed.
Eleven
Knight
My knee won’t stop jiggling. Chaos was the first thing I remember feeling as a young boy. My mother used it to pacify my need for death.
“You need to relax.” Legend kicks my foot with his, but I ignore him.
Keeping my gaze leveled on the wall at the opposite side of the room. Shadows bounce against the chandeliers that dangle from above, and every now and then, I find myself counting to ten to calm that itching madness that wants to tear right out of my fingertips, just like it did as a kid.
Then, my mother would drop my ass in the middle of a field and let me ruin everything in my path. It was a coping mechanism. One I hadn’t practiced in some time, hence London’s damage.
“You don’t know what the fuck I need.” I raise my glass to my lips, swiping the leftover Fae dust that’s around my nostrils.
“Actually, I have an idea,” he teases, and I don’t have to follow his line of sight to know exactly who he’s looking at. She shifts her pale white hair over her shoulder, and anger aside, I feel my dick harden in my pants at the sight of her.
Fuck.
I let my glass sit against the pillow of my lips. I can’t help but wonder if whoever it was who killed the King is bold enough to attend this ball tonight. You had to have a pair of heavy-set balls to take him out, so I’m guessing yeah. Fuck yeah, they’d float around a cute little fucking ballroom just to see how we react. I hate that they see us but we don’t see them.
Fire touches my chest, and my eyes fly down to London’s hand, where another guy touches hers at the exact moment. She flutters her lashes up at him from below, leaving a ghost of a flirty smirk decorated over her mouth. Cheeky fucking bitch.
Legend leans into me. “You gonna handle that?”
I know what he’s asking—if I’m going to cause a scene. And I would. But the way London is lately, we all know that she would have no problem throwing back as much as I give. I don’t want drama. Not after the death.
I push up from my chair, downing the remainder of my drink and leaving it on the floating iron that’s hovering to the side of my throne. Taking the steps two at a time, people part like the Red fucking Sea as I close the distance between us. The closer she gets, the more that same anger boils.
I reach out to her arm and yank her into my chest. The guy she’s talking to steps backward slightly. His eyes catch mine, and I bare my teeth, watching as his face pales slightly. Pass. I wondered whether someone so bold to kill the King would be the very same who would touch a Lord’s mate.
“Ah—back up!” London’s hand is on my chest, forcing me away.
It’s cute that she thinks she can, so my eyes shift between her hand and her face, doing nothing to hide my grin.
Wrapping my hand around her frail wrist, my grin is gone when I pull her back against my chest and start escorting her across the other side of the room.
“I don’t much like this distance between us, mate,” I bite against her earlobe. “The only time there should be air between us is when I’m sucking the final breaths out of yours.”
I see the twin golden doors in the distance, and as much as London can, and does, fight against me, she knows she’s no match. It’s like a baby rat fighting for its life as I dangle it by its tail above a den of pythons.
As soon as I kick the doors open, I shove her forward until she stumbles, and she catches her fall with her hands, shooting to her feet.
“Let me be clear, mate.” The word hadn’t left my mouth before a fist is flying into my face. I don’t even bother to whack it away, taking the blow face-on and smirking at her when she screams, clutching her knuckles in her palm.