Page 50 of Mate of a Monster

I notice the slight tension in her jaw. The way her fingers curl at her sides.

I intercede. “Nobody said anything about killing him.”

The gifted cocks his head as he studies her and sneers, “Demands like a queen but wears no crown. No bite. No bond.”

“Legend!” Arabella’s composure cracks and her jaw drops in clear offense. “Why are you letting him speak to me like that?”

Good question. I ask myself the same thing, turning the words over and waiting for the answer to surface.

It doesn’t.

I don’t give a fuck. I genuinely, completely, do not give a fuck how he speaks to her. And that bothers me more than the words themselves, because I should. If someone even so much as breathed near—

Something in the air shifts.

My attention cuts to Arabella.

Her narrowed eyes fixate on our unwanted guest. Whatever magic she’s using—it’s subtle. She does this. Argents fucking do this. You don’t know they’re using magic until someone is fucking dead on the floor.

Before I can intervene, the magic suddenly stills—suspended in the air. At first, it seems like she stopped on her own. But it’s not her. It’s him.

“What’s the matter, little snowflake?” He mocks, face drunk on amusement. “Did the little Argent’s song lose its tune?”

My brows furrow as Arabella visibly tenses.

“You’re lying little magic won’t work on me,” he boasts. “And if it doesn’t work on me, then…”

His words clearly resonate. Arabella glares and the man chuckles lowly.

“Enough,” I snap, pushing closer until I’m inches from the gifted.

“Do it,” he breathes, quiet enough that only I can hear him.

“Do what?”

“Inhale. You know you want to. No, I bet you need to because she is peace in a way that stand-in could never be. So go on, king, fill yourself with the only thing of her you’ll ever have—

My fist connects with his jaw.

“Legend!” Creed grabs my arm but I yank free, pushing closer to the man until my chest is shoving his and he slams back into the wall.

He grins, blood slipping from the corner of his mouth and running down his chin. “You held it in your palms.”

My jaw tightens. “You don’t get to ask questions.”

“I wasn’t asking.” His eyes gleam faintly, something feral under the exhaustion. “I can feel it.”

Creed stirs beside me. “Enough games. Tell us who you are.”

The gifted’s gaze flicks to him, turning his back to me, and I don’t miss the way his attention keeps circling home.

“You think you’re whole,” he says quietly, and the temperature in the room drops. “That’s what makes this so fun.”

“You keep talking like you know me,” I say evenly. “You don’t.”

He studies me for a long second, and I can almost see the calculation running behind his eyes. “No,” he agrees. “I don’t know you.” The pause stretches. “But I know the part of you that’s missing.”

The room goes still.