“I think I like you better when you’re cursing me out.”
A smile plays at my lips, and it’s only then that his dark lashes lift, his gaze piercing to study me in the dimness of the light.
“I can call you a fur fucker and stroke your hair like a lover. It’s called multitasking, Romey.” My head cocks to the side, but I can’t explain why I’m still holding him.
Or why he’s still holding me. His big palm slides lower down to the small of my back as he pulls me in closer against this warm chest.
“Mmm, I’d like that even more though,” he says in a low sensual tone that flutters across my neck and all through my body.
My heart is now a gooey mess that I can’t control. It beats too hard, and I know he hears it. I know he knows what he’s doing, and I hate it.
I hate that someone I hate can make my heart so stupid.
Like a bratty child, I pull his short hair between my finger and thumb, and he doesn’t even flinch.
“What’s with the braids?” I ask in a serious and not at all distracted tone.
The mischief shining in his gaze dulls like I’ve struck a chord. I get the feeling there are a lot of pained chords in Roman’s miserable little life though.
“High Hell keep track of their battles. They wear their braids like badges to honor the lives they’ve taken.”
The dozens of tiny braids in Zilo’s hair flash through my mind. Avian has one.
Roman’s hair is short and cropped close to his skull: no braids.
“You’re a High Hell, but you’ve never been to battle?” I’m back to running my fingers over the spikey feel of his hair.
“I have,” he admits in a shallow tone. It’s more of a crippling exhale than a voice.
“Why don’t you honor the lives you’ve taken then?” The moment I ask it, he releases me, pulls away and rolls over flat on his back. His lips tense with a stifled wince, and I know his wounds from last night are still fresh.
And yet, he continues to keep the space between us.
“What?” I ask with a new cautiousness in my tone.
“Just let it go, beautiful,” he says as he closes his eyes like he’s decided to now go back to sleep.
He’s avoiding the answer. He doesn’t want to tell me.
As a mature woman, I leave him in silence. It’s the adult thing to do. It’s what any reasonable human would understand.
And that just doesn’t sit right with me.
“Just fucking tell me. Stop being a little Hell Cunt and tell me!” I pout so hard I can feel the line crease between my eyebrows.
He turns his head ever so slowly and glares a look of pure demonic wrath my way. “Drop. It.”
My lips part while my eyebrows lift slightly higher. “Nnnnooo,” I reply in the clearest, most pronounced tone so I know his little puppy brain can understand.
Two well-thought-out blinks are his only response.
And then he’s on top of me.
He pounces so fast I never see it coming until he’s straddled over me, his fingers clenching my wrists above my head as he looks down on me with blazing fiery eyes. Hell is in his gaze. I feel it burning off his skin in hot waves that seep into my very bones. This kingdom’s magic is alive and well in his strength now.
“Someday, you’ll listen when someone speaks, beautiful,” he whispers, getting in close as his nose runs the length of my jaw line.
His hands shift, and suddenly he’s holding my arms higher with both wrists clenched in one big fist of his. With his free hand, he pushes my hair back and hovers his hot mouth just against the shell of my ear. I feel his breath there, and it races a shiver across every inch of my flesh.
“There are cruel, cruel men in this kingdom, beautiful. They’ll break you.” His voice dips, catching lightly before finding the gruffness of his tone. “I found out the hard way. I don’t want you to be like me. When someone says to fucking drop it”—his words fans along my throat, and the way he holds me and the light graze of his fingers is suddenly more erotic than aggressive—“you fucking drop it.” It’s a warning. Not because he hates me. But because he’s worried. He’s worried I’ll end up like him.
And I can see that in the pain of his eyes.
His grip on me loosens, and I feel him shift