The Faceless Woman by Emma Hamm (i love reading .txt) 📕

hand up, cupped her head, and gently dipped her backward until all she could see was the dark feathered side of his face surrounded by shards of broken stained glass.

“Even with all your darkness, you are too good for me,” he whispered.

“I will never believe that,” she replied.

“Why not?”

“Because you have a crooked smile that is both cruel and kind. You are Unseelie, yet your hands speak of softness and a desire to do good. You have stardust in your eyes, and I find you utterly brilliant.”

“Careful, witch,” he warned, “I might think you enjoy my company.”

“I do.” The words tumbled from her mouth without warning. She hadn’t meant to admit it, but there it was, out in the open, ragged and shivering in the cold air of the ballroom.

His eyes widened, shock running through him in a shiver that carried into her. His arm tightened around her waist, his bicep flexed to pull her forehead to his. Breath fluttered over her lips that was more powerful than a kiss.

“What are you doing to me?” he whispered, the words slipping down her throat and burrowing into her heart.

The duchess’s voice cut through their revelries. Her slow claps echoed through the ballroom. “Bravo! Such a wonderful performance, it shall entertain us for centuries.”

Bran slowly straightened, keeping his grip steady and reassuring. “It is our pleasure to oblige, Duchess.”

“I’m sure it is.” The grin on her face twisted into something feral. “Run along now, little children. I don’t think you want to be here for the hunt.”

Aisling watched the blood drain from Bran’s face. He turned and wrapped an arm around her waist, hurrying her through the ballroom as quickly as he could without running.

“Bran?” she asked. “What is the hunt?”

“The duchess’s twisted version of an evening out. The duke will not come to such a party, but he always expects pieces to be delivered back to him.”

“Pieces?” She twisted in his arms to see the first splatter of blood whipped across the Duchess’s face.

Aisling had never seen such joy in the pain of others. The first scream didn’t start until they reached the door. Then it was a symphony of voices raised to the rafters of the ballroom, all crying out for help.

They ran down the halls as if the Wild Hunt pursued them. Aisling’s breath turned ragged, her shoulders ached from running and, bound by a corset, her ribs protested the movement. The thorns dug into her neck. Each breath sank the metal deeper into her throat.

Finally, they reached the door to her room. Bran set his shoulder against it mid-run, banging the worn wood against the door, whipping her through it with a well-placed hand.

She careened past him. Her gasp echoed in the room, but neither of them reacted to her startled sound. There would be time for that, but not just now. She pressed her hand against her mouth to silence her loud breaths, and he remained with his ear against the door, listening for any who might have followed them from the cursed ballroom.

He let out a half chuckle. “Well, that’s something you don’t see at every ball.”

“I wouldn’t know,” she said, laughing softly and staring down at the floor. “You missed your opportunity to try and convince me all Unseelie balls end with a sacrifice.”

“Why would I do that?”

There was something different about his voice, a smooth quality that was like velvet sliding across her skin. Aisling shivered.

Don’t look up, she told herself. He doesn’t know how to handle the emotions that come with this new face. He thinks you were given the face of your sister to torment him. Don’t look up.

But she looked.

He was leaning against the door, arms crossed over his broad chest and ankles linked. A lock of his hair fell like a waterfall and obscured part of his face. His feathers were nearly grown in on the side of his head, lying flat, reflecting blue in the dim light of fire and moonlight.

He stared at the ground for a few moments before glancing up at her with a hooded gaze. When he bit his lip, she was certain death would strike her down where she stood.

She reminded herself that he saw her sister. That he had loved her sister. But it was a look she recognized, only amplified by thousands.

“Witch,” he murmured, “tell me you don’t want this.”

She shook her head. What else could she say? She was a woman who knew what she wanted. She desired the man in front of her so much she could barely breathe.

Bran pushed himself away from the door and strode toward her with slow, purposeful steps. “Tell me that I’m good enough for you.”

“I can’t.”

Was that her voice? That breathless, wondrous tone had never escaped before.

He circled her, a great black raven, surveying the battlefield and choosing the fallen warrior upon which he would feast.

“Tell me you’re frightened of me.”

“I’m not.”

He paused in front of her, then slowly reached out to touch her exposed collarbone with the back of his knuckles. “Last chance, little witch. I won’t stop after this.”

Could he hear her heartbeat? It thundered in her chest, an insistent sound clamoring for his attention. “I am not afraid of you, and I do not want this to stop.” She swallowed her nerves and met his heated stare. “But if you think I couldn’t prevent you from touching me after this moment, you do not know me as well as you think.”

His knuckles dragged down her front. Gentle and ever so slow, they scraped between her breasts and then paused at the delicate skin between her ribs. “You are in the presence of an Unseelie prince.” He leaned forward until his breath fanned across her neck. “You have no idea what I’m capable of.”

The air disappeared from her lungs. Unbidden, she remained frozen in the center of the room. He circled her again, slow, stalking steps in time with her heartbeat.

“Close your eyes, little witch,” he breathed in the shell of her ear.