I glance at the black beast distractedly just as the animal tips her nose down to meet my outstretched fingers. So beautiful. Then her mouth is opening wide, displaying razor-sharp teeth about to take my hand off.
What the—? I yank away right as the teeth snap closed. The beast gives a piercing whinny of anger and bites at the air where my arm just was.
“What the bolcrane? What’s wrong with it?”
The man utters a low, rich chuckle that fills the space around us with charming ease. “Told you.”
Then, as if not trusting me to refrain from attempting to touch the horse again, he steps closer. He’s the man Adora was admiring through the window this afternoon. Eogan, if my suspicion’s correct. Arms crossed, sporting a cocky smile.
And he’s unreasonably attractive—curse him.
I scoot away, keeping the snapping horse in my perimeter. “So you did,” I say, still catching my breath. But I see no reason to laugh about it.
His expression shifts to suspicious. “You’re not going to faint, are you?” His tone makes it clear nothing would be more loathsome.
“You’re not going to squeal like a little girl if I do, are you?”
“You should leave. You’re upsetting the horses.” He turns to go, and I’m abruptly aware that the horse who tried to eat me is in a rage, gnashing her teeth and knocking against the stall. The other horses are starting to join in.
But I won’t leave based on some chump-man’s orders. I strike my haughty pose. “What’s wrong with them?”
“Nothing. They’re meat eaters. You’re meat.”
“You bred them that way?”
“They’re warhorses,” he says. And saunters out the door.
The blood and hair on the floor . . . My stomach turns. I don’t even want to know. The animals’ chorus is growing. Becoming a call for flesh. Chills scramble up my back and hairline as I follow the gorgeous, irritating man outside, my sleeve half hanging off my arm. I yank it up higher, but something must have ripped when I pulled away from the horse because the right side won’t stay up now. Ridiculous dress.
The man is striding away, across the lawn, beneath the moonlight and swaying lights. Toward the cottage.
I give one last tug on my sleeve and accidentally tear it off. Crumpling it in my fist, I trail after him.
My stomping is somewhat dulled by the grass and the slippers on my feet. But he hears me anyway because he tosses out, “Shouldn’t you be at Adora’s party?”
“I wasn’t invited.”
A pause. “Shouldn’t you be watching the party, then? Ogling the pretty boys and dresses?”
“Shouldn’t you be flirting with Adora?”
We’ve reached the cottage, and he spins to face me. He is tall and broad and has a snarl curving his lips that is begging to be slapped off. His glower lasts a few seconds longer, then relaxes. He straightens and smiles as if I’m a stupid little girl he finds bothersome for the moment. After opening the door, he enters. And casually swings it shut in my face.
I catch it with my foot before it latches and push the heavy wood open far enough for me to lean against the doorpost. He’s stepped over to the fireplace where a pot full of silvery liquid is boiling and infusing the room with a scent of metal and pine. I wrinkle my nose.
The place isn’t so much a cottage as a workshop filled with strange contraptions. They’re made of tiny metal parts assembled into toys spanning from the length of my pinky finger to that of my entire arm. They look like boxy versions of animals and people. From the ceiling hang dainty ones with birdlike wings.
“What is all this?”
He doesn’t look up, just carries the pot of boiling liquid from the fireplace to the worktable. “You shouldn’t be in here.”
“Really? You’re in here.”
“I live here.”
I peer around. Doubtful. Then I notice the small door by the bookcase. There must be sleeping quarters in the back.
“Right. So why aren’t you at the party?”
“I don’t like people.” He tips some of the smelly liquid into another pot.
“Clearly.”
He glances up. In the cottage light, I realize he’s younger than his confidence suggests. Four years older than me maybe. Five at the most. The firelight bounces off his dark skin, making it glimmer. It’s beautiful.
He goes back to his pouring, growling, “You’re not going to win, you know.”
“Win?”
“Our little game here. Your little attitude.”
I raise a brow. My attitude? I slide farther into the room, then plant my feet near the wall. If he wants me out, he’ll have to kick me out. “I don’t have an attitude. You have an attitude.”
Flashing green eyes rise to settle on mine. “When I want you out, you’ll leave.”
I look away and fiddle with the torn sleeve wadded in my fingers. When I peek at him again, those brilliant eyes are peering between jagged black bangs, studying the owner circles tattooed on my arm.
“I hear you’re a storm siren.”
I frown. “What?”