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The desk’s surface was freezing, but she didn’t tell him. What would he do about it? Cup her into his hands and hold her close for warmth? Wrap her in another exquisite layer of clothing and wait for her to grovel with thanks?
She’d freeze to death before asking him for anything other than her freedom.
The chain was particularly cold on her cross-legged lap. It was deceptively delicate to humans, but to her, it contained the weight of the world. The clasp was fastened to her iron-core cuff. The other end was attached to his luxury watch. Her fingers ached viciously at the thought of all her attempts to pry the clasp open.
“Sylv?”
She didn’t look up. Couldn’t. Every time she looked, she had to endure her heart shattering into a million pieces all over again. It was bad enough that he insisted on these quiet moments together—moments that she had once cherished. Now, she was positively sickened by his looming presence at the edge of her sight.
He didn’t bother saying her name again. A massive hand approached. He tapped a fingertip under her chin to force her face up toward him. She glared, willing her vision to blur so she couldn’t fully see him. But it wasn’t his face that he wanted her to look at. Her lips pinched as he tilted his sketchbook in her direction to reveal what he had done.
The style of his art registered to her before the subject. The smooth strokes. The delicate details. It was one of the only things that hadn’t changed about him, and it made her want to crumple like paper. Then, she realized what he had drawn.
“Oh,” she said flatly.
She was looking at a portrait of herself. He’d drawn countless others, before.
“What do you think?” he asked, having the gall to offer a small smile.
Her likeness was both beautiful and terrible. She so rarely glanced at her reflection these days; now she was forced to confront what she looked like in the nice clothes he’d commissioned for her. But what really made her want to rip the page to shreds was that he’d drawn her with a smirk. A nice, relaxed, impish smirk that she hadn’t worn in ages.
“You didn’t draw the chain,” she said hollowly. She raised her hand and shook her wrist. “Did you forget it was here?”
He released a gusting sigh and rubbed between his eyes. She would have laughed at him if she had the capacity to. Did he really think this would be the magic trick that won her over? What’s the point of humans having such big brains if they can’t even use them? She would have teased him ceaselessly in another life.
Laying down the sketchbook, he reached toward her again. She stiffed, but he was only grabbing one of his untouched pencils that lay beside her. He snapped the tip off effortlessly. At first, she thought it was a peculiar sign of aggression, but then he offered her the broken piece.
“You want to draw something?” he asked. “You love that.”
When it became clear the offer wasn’t really an option, she took the graphite, hating that her skin had to brush his in the process. Warmth. How was it possible that there was the slightest bit of warmth to him anymore?
“What should I draw?” she asked. The chain clinked on the desk’s surface as she stood. It was a long leash, but it wasn’t enough. Never enough.
“Anything you want,” he said. A note of hope had entered his rumbling voice.
She stared at the sharp point in her hand. It was minuscule to him. But still, it was sharp. Her eyes darted up to his face. One full look at those familiar green eyes was all it took to tip her over the edge.
She burst into flight, beelining for his face. He only had time to grunt in alarm before she rammed into his cheek and started driving her armed up toward his eye.
His reflexes were another thing that hadn’t changed. He took hold of her wings between his fingers and threw her down to the desk. She landed on the open pages of the sketchbook, the air knocked clean out of her. It was a miracle he hadn’t torn her wings off entirely. As she scrambled to sit up, his hand slammed down on her, pinning her writhing body in place to prevent another frenzied flight.
“Fuck, Sylv!” he roared, rubbing his cheek with his free hand.
She cringed at his volume, but she couldn’t move her arms to cover her ears. His fingers dug heavily into her body, making it impossible to draw a full breath. He seemed to be breathing for both of them, in and out like he had been running for miles. She thrashed like a trapped animal, her fingers locked firmly around the pencil tip. Her kicking heels tore at the paper.
His other hand dove down toward her. Flashes of his hulking figure were visible between his fingers as he tried to wrest the pencil tip from her hand. A line of blood dribbled down his cheek and traced his jaw toward his chin. She noticed with disappointment that she hadn’t gotten his eye—just the skin below it. Still, she hoped it hurt.
“I give and give,” he said through gritted teeth. “I could’ve sold you off. Could’ve used you for target practice. Instead, I’ve given you everything, but nothing is fucking good enough for you.” His ear-shattering voice took a truly anguished turn. “What the fuck do I have to do to make you smile again?”
She stopped moving. Her voice was a rasp. “Wake up and realize what you’ve done. Then put a bullet in your brain.”
His expression twisted into unbridled anger. He had a hold on the pencil tip, but she wouldn’t let go. He had already deprived her of magic with the damn iron cuff. She wasn’t going to give up her only other weapon so easily. But she knew it was stupid to think she could win this fight.
He pried and gave a devastatingly sharp yank.
A horrible snap jolted up her arm and lanced through her body and mind like an explosion of stars.
She might have screamed for days if Cliff didn’t muffle her mouth with his fingertip.