Knife at the Throat

POV: Malia

The heavy oak doors of the bridal chamber clicked shut, the sound echoing through the cavernous room like the drop of an iron portcullis.

I stood rooted to the center of the plush, crimson carpet, my hands tucked deep into the stiff, heavy folds of my embroidered silk gown. The air in the room was suffocatingly warm, thick with the cloying scent of crushed jasmine and expensive beeswax candles. It was supposed to be a room prepared for celebration, for union. To me, it felt like a gilded cage built specifically to execute me.

Behind me, I heard the slow, unhurried rustle of heavy wool as Jarrah shed his ceremonial cloak.

My heart was beating so violently against my ribs that I was certain he could hear it. For three months, I had trained my body to be silent, to be invisible, to survive in the shadow of the warlord who had crushed my family’s lands and claimed me as a prize of peace. Tonight was the night the treaty took effect. Tonight was the night I was expected to yield.

"You haven't moved since we stepped across the threshold, Malia," Jarrah said, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that grated against my raw nerves.

I didn't turn around immediately. I focused on the cold, sharp weight pressed flush against the skin of my thigh, hidden under three layers of petticoats. A thin, bone-handled stiletto, forged from tempered steel and dipped in a subtle, paralyzing nightshade draught. It was my only weapon. My only salvation.

"I am adjusting to the light," I said, keeping my tone flat, devoid of the terror clawing at my throat.

"The light hasn't changed," Jarrah replied softly.

I heard his footsteps slow, deliberate, light as a predator stalking through dry grass. He stopped a few feet behind me. I could feel the heat radiating from him, breaking through the cold chill that had settled into my bones since the moment I walked down the aisle.

"Look at me," he commanded softly. It wasn't shouted; it didn't need to be. Authority dripped from every syllable he spoke.

I took a slow, steadying breath, burying the tremor in my hands before turning to face him.

Jarrah had stripped off his heavy armor, wearing only a loose linen shirt open at the throat and dark leather trousers. The faint amber light of the hearth caught the harsh angles of his face—the jagged scar running from his cheekbone down to his jawline, the thick shadow of stubble, and those dark, unreadable eyes that seemed to strip away every lie I had ever told. He looked terrifyingly human without his plate mail, larger and far more dangerous.

"They told me you were quiet," Jarrah murmured, stepping closer until only an arm's length separated us. He reached out, his thick, calloused fingers hovering near my jaw. "They told me you were a submissive daughter who knew how to obey."

"They lied to you about a great many things, Jarrah," I whispered, my teeth clenching.

"I am beginning to see that," he said, his thumb brushing lightly against the hollow of my throat. I flinched, my pulse throbbing frantically right beneath his skin. He felt it. A faint, terrible smirk touched the corner of his lips. "You tremble like a trapped bird, yet your eyes look like you want to tear my throat out."

Now.

The word screamed through my mind.

I dropped my weight, my left hand reaching out to slam into his chest to throw off his balance while my right hand whipped downward, tearing through the silk of my skirt to grasp the hilt of the stiletto. In a single, fluid motion born of months of desperate practice, I pulled the blade and lunged upward, aiming the poison-tipped point directly at the exposed artery in his neck.

The blade moved through the air with a soft, lethal hiss.

I expected a shock. I expected him to stumble back, to try and block with his arm.

I was wrong.

Before the steel could even graze the stubble on his jaw, Jarrah moved. It wasn't a sudden dodge or a defensive flinch; it was a movement so impossibly fast, so brutally efficient, that my brain couldn't register the transition.

His left hand shot out like a strike of lightning, his fingers clamping around my wrist with the crushing force of an iron vise. The air rushed out of my lungs as he twisted my arm back and inward, using my own momentum to hurl me against his chest.

CLANG.

Pain shot up my arm to my shoulder. My fingers involuntarily opened, and the bone-handled stiletto slipped from my grip, spinning through the air before embedding itself deep into the hardwood floorboards with a dull, resonant thud.

Before I could breathe, before I could scream, Jarrah spun me around, slamming my back against the heavy stone pillar flanking the hearth. His body pinned mine, his forearm pressing firmly across my collarbone, pinning me flush against the rough granite.

I was completely trapped.

I stared up at him, gasping for breath, my chest heaving against his arm. My wrist was still pinned beside my head, locked in his grip. I braced for the blow, for the sharp cut of steel, for the rage of a lord who had just been betrayed by his bride.

But Jarrah wasn't angry.

His face was inches from mine, his dark eyes ablaze with a wild, terrifying light that sent a surge of electricity straight down my spine. He wasn't breathing hard. He hadn't even lost his balance.

"Slow," Jarrah whispered, his voice dropping into a dangerously soft murmur against my lips. "Your stance was too wide, your grip was too high, and you let your eyes shift to my throat a full second before you drew the steel."

I bit my lip, refusing to let the sob trapped in my throat escape. "Kill me then," I spat, my voice shaking with raw hatred and absolute desperation. "Kill me and be done with it!"

Jarrah lowered his head until his breath brushed the shell of my ear. "Kill you? After you went to all the trouble of hiding a blade in your skirts?"

He released my wrist, but before I could pull away, his hand slid up my neck, his fingers tangled in the braided hair at the nape of my neck, tilting my head back so I had no choice but to look at him.

"I don't execute women with fire in their blood, Malia," he whispered, his thumb lightly tracing the bottom of my lip, sending a terrifying shiver through my entire body. "I break them. Or I let them break me."

Suddenly, three sharp, rhythmic knocks rattled the heavy oak doors of the chamber.

Jarrah didn't move. His gaze remained locked on mine, his grip tight in my hair.

"My Lord!" a voice called out from behind the wood. It was his chief captain, his tone laced with absolute panic. "My Lord, break the seal! The northern border towers have just fallen! The siege has begun!"

My stomach dropped into a bottomless pit. The northern towers were held by my family.

Jarrah’s eyes narrowed, a cold, dangerous shadow passing over his features. He didn't let go of my hair. Instead, he leaned down closer, his lips practically resting against mine.

"Tell me, my sweet bride," Jarrah purred, his voice dripping with lethal suspicion. "Did your father send you here to kill me tonight... or was your little dagger just a distraction to keep me in this room while your brothers burned my kingdom?”