Soulbound (Darkest London 6)

His gaze, cold as ever, raked over her, lingering on her breasts, and his thin mouth curled. It was not a look of lust or even appreciation but of ownership, as though he believed he was entitled to do anything to her. Eliza did not flinch, even as her mind screamed at her to run. Gods almighty, she’d faked a death, traveled across an ocean, and he’d found her.

Mellan tilted his head, the angle extreme, calling to mind a crow about to peck at its prey. “You do not seem happy to see me, pet.”

She knew that tone. A fist would be accompanying his words soon enough. Eliza found she didn’t damn well care. “For once, you’ve correctly assessed my feelings, Mellan. Is it too much to hope that you’ll also turn heel and leave this instant?”

His slow chuckle was nails against glass. “I have so missed your sense of humor, Eliza.”

“I have no sense of humor where you are concerned.”

His patience vanished like smoke, and he took a hard step closer. “Your constant sassing wears thin.” His teeth showed with an ugly grin. “Here on in, I’ll be taking my pound of flesh for each snide remark.”

“I expected nothing less,” she snapped back as though her insides weren’t churning. “Only I do believe our acquaintance has come to an end.”

“Is that what you believe?” He chuckled. “Dear girl, you know so little. It’s pitiful, really.”

They glared at each other, laughter and the gentle murmur of conversation drifting over the garden, when the light scuff of a shoe sounded.

“Ah, Eliza,” said Mab – her savior. Mab’s doll-like face plumped with a smile as she looked toward Mellan. “I see that you’ve found Mellan. Excellent.”

Eliza’s heart nearly stopped as she gaped at her aunt. “You… you know this man?”

Mab cocked her head, exactly as Mellan had done. “Know him? Why, my dear girl, he’s my brother. And your kin.”

The bottom dropped out of Eliza’s stomach. As if Mab hadn’t just voiced something utterly horrible, her expression grew beatific, and she gave Mellan a pleased nod. “I believe he’s been most desperate to see you.”

For an endless moment, Eliza simply stood, her hand pressed tight to her middle, her mouth open and silent. “I… How…” Her breath hitched, and her hand curled into a fist. “Aunt, you do not understand —”

Mab’s little nostrils flared in irritation. “I assure you, child, I understand perfectly well. Mellan has kept me apprised of the situation, and shame on you for running from him. That is not the mark of honor.” Her eyes were hard and unyielding. “I realize that you yearn, as all fae do, to be independent. But a child of my bloodline has certain duties, and certain customs must be respected. Make no mistake, Mellan shall be your husband.”

“You’ve healed nicely.”

Adam refused to react to the sly finger that slid along his chained arm and lingered along his collarbone. The very bone the bitch had broken in three places last night. Mab hummed, a pleased sound, as her touch moved to his nipple, and Adam ground his back teeth together. Given the choice between enduring her touch or meeting her gaze, Adam picked the latter.

Her beauty was flawless, an elegant rose in perfect bloom. And beneath it, foul rot. She smiled at him, her plump lips revealing black fangs. She liked to bite him with those fangs. Hard, deep bites in his most sensitive places. Bitch.

“Such hate in your eyes, Adam.” Mab sat back on her heels and tutted. “When your freedom could be gained by simply loving me.”

Unable to hold it back, he snorted with disdain. “Love? Is that what all this is about? Your undying need to be adored by those who refuse you?” He would be ill. He imagined splattering her fine satin dress with his vomit. An entertaining image, that. But Adam would not give her the satisfaction of seeing the depths of his feeling.

Mab stood, her small nostrils flaring. “Always so very proud, Aodh. To your downfall.” With the tip of her boot, she forced his chin up. Her eyes held the satisfaction of victory. “One day, you shall gladly kiss these boots.”

He ought to remain silent. If anyone knew how maddening silence could be, it was Adam. Eliza had given him a hard dose of that particular treatment for months. It had nearly driven him to madness. Often times, he’d pictured himself tearing apart a room, rage and hopelessness over her refusal to engage with him pushing him to the edge. Yes, Mab would detest a mutinous silence.

Unfortunately, Adam detested holding his tongue with equal measure. He simply could not do it. Which is why he found himself affecting a pleading voice, strongly laced with acidic sarcasm. “Oh, Mab, please spare me another round of torture. I cannot possibly stand another moment.”

Her lips pursed as she glared down at him. “You think you’re so cheeky. We’ll see who’s laughing when I finish flaying your skin.”

One of her favorite methods. Bile surged upward. “If memory serves,” he said as though his throat wasn’t burning, “that would be you.”

After all, the bitch had cut his tongue out during that particular session so he hadn’t been able to join in. And while Adam would rather not think on that time, or experience it again, he’d be damned if he’d let that show.

Her eyes narrowed, their color flashing from human brown to a fae’s pansy purple. “I clearly need to be more creative with my tricks.”

He simply stared back, tired of her games, tired of everything.