A Shadow in the Ember (Flesh and Fire 1)

“Well, that’s…something to be proud of.”

“I am,” he agreed. “But I will pretend to be decent right now and let you go. However, if you attempt to run back out there, I will catch you. You will not be faster than me, and the whole thing will just annoy me.”

His devotion to stopping me—a complete stranger—from getting myself killed actually seemed like a rather decent thing to do. But I wasn’t going to point that out. “Have I given you any indication that I care about annoying you?” I retorted.

“I have a feeling you don’t. But I’m hoping you discovered whatever smidgen of common sense exists inside you and have decided to use it.”

My entire body prickled with anger. “That was rude.”

“Be that as it may, do you understand?” he asked.

“And if I say no? Will you stand here and hold me all night?” I spat.

“Since my plans are now shot, I do have some spare time on my hands.”

“You have got to be kidding,” I snarled.

“Actually, no.”

Every part of my being ached with the desire to punch him. Hard. “I understand.”

“Good. To be honest, my arms were getting tired.”

Wait. Was he insinuating that I was—?

He released me, and gods, he was tall. There had to be a good foot between the ground and my feet based on how hard I landed. I stumbled forward, and his hands clasped around my arms, steadying me. Another decent act I was not even remotely grateful for.

Tearing myself free, I whirled toward him as I reached for my dagger.

“Now you’ve got to be kidding me.” The male sighed, snapping forward.

He was as fast as a strike of lightning, catching my wrist before I could even free my blade. I gasped. Dressed in all black, he was nothing more than a thick shadow. He yanked me toward his chest as he spun us, forcing me back. Within a few too-quick heartbeats, he had me trapped again, this time between the vine-covered wall and his body.

“Dammit.” I leaned back, lifting my right leg—

“Can we not do this?” He shifted, simultaneously wedging a thigh between mine and catching my other wrist, bringing my hands together.

I fought, using every ounce of strength I had as he lifted my hands, stretching my arms above my head and then pinning my wrists to the wall. Flowers broke free, raining down on us. I drew up my other leg. I just needed to get space—

“I’ll take that as a no.” He leaned in then, pressing his body to mine.

I froze. Air lodged in my throat. There didn’t seem to be a part of me that wasn’t in contact with him. My legs. Hips. Stomach. Breasts. I could feel him, his hips against my stomach, his stomach and lower part of his chest against my breasts—his skin through his clothing, cool as the first touch of autumn. My senses were a chaotic mess as I forced air into my lungs—a breath that was fresh and citrusy. I couldn’t even smell the sweet peas beyond his scent. No one—not even Sir Holland or anyone I fought who knew what I was—got this close to me.

I hadn’t seen his other hand move, but I felt it slide behind my head, becoming an immovable wedge between me and the wall. “There’s something I need you to understand.” His whisper filled with tendrils of darkness again. “While I’m not suggesting you don’t attempt to fight me—you do whatever you feel you need to—you should know that you will not win. Ever.”

There was a finality to his words that sent a tremor through my captured hands. I tipped my head back and looked up…and up. He was well over a foot taller than me, maybe even as tall as the Primal of Death was. A shiver of unease prickled the nape of my neck. Most of his face was cast in shadow, and all I could see was the hard line of his jaw. When his head tilted into a slice of moonlight, I saw him.

This man was…he was absolutely, without a doubt, the most stunning man I’d ever seen. And I’d seen some gorgeous men. Some from here within Lasania, and others from kingdoms that stretched into the east. Some had finer, more symmetrical features than the one holding me to the wall, but none were put together so perfectly, so…sensually as this man’s. Even in the moonlight, his skin was a lustrous, golden-brown color, reminding me of wheat. His cheekbones were high and broad, his nose straight as a blade, and his mouth…it was full and wide. He had the kind of face an artist would love to shape with clay or capture with charcoal. But there was also a coldness to his features. As if the Primals themselves had crafted the lines and planes and forgot to add the warmth of humanity.