Page 50 of Malicent (Seven Devils #1)

Her accusations, however true, cause my own frustration to rise.

She practically takes her finger and digs it into deep wounds that I have been trying to heal for years.

“Millicent,” I snap. “I’m six years older than you.

I was eleven.” The words punch out of me before I can check them.

I didn’t mean to raise my voice, but she won’t stop picking at this.

“What was I going to do?” I bark. “Think, damn it! How would I, an eleven-year-old, have summoned a dragon? Or slaughtered half of a coven?”

“You were always strong. I obviously don’t know the logistics, but your excuse? Someone forced you onto a damn dragon? Someone else killed everyone?” She scoffs, already dismissing anything I might say.

“Millicent, why would I hurt you? Or your mother?” My voice is steel. It’s not sorrowful or pleading, just honest. “Especially you,” I add. “You had your mother. All I had was you.”

Her chest rises sharply, breath picking up. Rage and pain churn in the depths. “Why not?” she snaps. “You’re a mage. Killing my kind is in your blood. You were growing stronger; maybe you just wanted more.”

I laugh, growing cold and sharp. “Then let me show you that night.”

She doesn’t respond right away. Skepticism hardens her features. She knows letting me in means being vulnerable, which is something she’s never been comfortable with, at least not around me.

“I won’t snoop,” I reassure her. “You have something in there guarding you anyway.”

“I don’t trust you. No.” She lifts her chin in stubborn defiance born out of self-preservation.

I need this wall between us to break, at least enough for this hostility to end and for us to function. Her attempt on Kalix’s life was too close of a call.

Slowly, I slide my hand to my thigh. I grip the hilt of my dagger and draw it free.

I flip the blade and offer it to her, handle first. It’s my first attempt at trying to make some sort of peace between us. We will not survive the North and Millicent’s revenge.

“Hold it to my throat.” I say quietly. “If you feel me prying, you can slit it. You and I both know I won’t be able to react fast enough if I’m in the memory. You’ll have the advantage.”

She snatches the dagger from my hand, and the blade slices across my fingers. I ignore the pain. My body’s already working to mend the wound. Arcana rushes beneath my skin to stitch the flesh back together.

She’s a predator. Show pain or a hint of weakness, and she’ll sink her teeth in.

I still only half believe she won’t slit my throat just to see what happens.

Not that it matters. If she does, Vryaxis will be here in seconds.

The dagger was never about risk; it is about control. Let her feel she has some.

I return to my desk, sitting this time so that we’re eye to eye and without the looming dominance of me towering over her.

Another calculated gesture. Another illusion of equality.

She approaches hesitantly until she’s standing between my legs. Her scent hits me—jasmine and vanilla—curling up into my lung like smoke. I grip the desk behind me to keep my hands where they belong.

Cool steel touches my throat.

“We have been here before,” I murmur. “Though I’ll admit, I prefer the view of you underneath me.”

“You talk entirely too much.” She pushes the blade harder.

Tempting.

I have a dozen ideas of what else my mouth could do right now, but she’s too volatile. Push too far and she’ll turn the dagger inward. I lean back, forcing her to lean into me so she can keep the dagger pressed.

“Stop moving.” Her voice is sharp, and her weight is solid. She’s trying to control the chaos in her own skin.

My hands leave the desk behind me and glide over her hips and down to her ass. Grabbing her roughly, I lift her onto my lap.

She gasps just once and braces herself with one hand on the table. The other keeps the dagger pressed to my throat.

“There,” I say. “Now we’re settled.” I keep my hands where they are, enjoying how she fills them.

“You just make excuses to touch me. Pathetic.”

“I wonder what excuses you tell yourself when my touch doesn’t disgust you.”

She’s quiet.

Smart girl. We both know the truth.

Her voice shifts. “The memories you claim to have…”

I nod. My hands move slow and measured, over her ribs and across her spine. My finger grazes the curves of her figure. I don’t let myself think about why I’m touching her. I could share memories without it, but I don’t.

My hands cup her face and I lean in. “Close your eyes.”

She hesitates. Her instinct is to fight and defy every request I make. Her curiosity wins. Her eyes flutter shut, giving me a reprieve from her gaze.

I watch her, just for a few seconds. I find myself doing that more often now, just watching her. The initial reaction I used to have of her—that volatile, knee-jerking rage—is fading. The truth is settling in.

She’s not Nora. Not even close. That fact settles in me with each passing day. Nora was calculated emptiness, a hunger wrapped in skin.

Unlike her, Millicent is a beautiful, chaotic creature sitting on my lap, driven by so much emotion. By need. There’s something in her that Nora never possessed.

She bites her bottom lip, a nervous tic since she was young. She’s nervous . I reach up, brushing my thumb along her cheek, and I gently tug her lip free.

I close my eyes, inhaling deeply as I reach out for her. Her defenses are finally down. It’s the first time I’ve ever been invited in, truly invited. I don’t push; I don’t dig. I stay just on the outskirts, not wishing to cross the threshold.

This isn’t about power. Not now. It’s about her trust and safety, as well as for everyone else’s well-being.

I extend a silver-threaded string between us, and then I descend deeper into the cold, heavy stillness of my subconscious.

Tingles spread through my fingers, toes, and skin. There is a strange buzzing sensation of slipping between consciousness and memory.

The outside world fades, and we fall.