judging by the gleam in his eyes, he was envisioning the way to do it. She shuddered. Something quick and effortless was probably the way he'd go. The knife across her throat or right into her heart. She wouldn't feel a thing. She pushed all thoughts of the consequences aside, tipped her chin up and stepped forward so her breasts brushed his chest.
"No. I think I'd like to stay."
"You do not get a choice," he uttered through clenched teeth.
He smelled of leather, smoke and a spice she couldn't quite put her finger on. She refrained from touching the feather in his hair, and instead stared into his troubled eyes. Sadness, anger and purpose melded together in the dark depths.
She smiled.
She never heard the sound of the blade until the tip pricked her throat. Black eyes, lethal and wicked, bore into hers. Tanned features tightened to conceal any hint of kindness and were replaced with evil and disgust. It was fascinating how he changed. How he masked any emotion other than hate and punched it forward onto his enemy, onto her.
She gasped. The enormity of his revulsion smashed into her, heavy and compressed. She felt dirty. Had her people done this to him? Had they mistreated him, pulling the hate from him, so anger was the sole emotion he displayed? Oh, if this was so, she needed to fix it. She needed him to see that not all white people were the same.
She closed her eyes. She had no idea where the courage came from to place her hand lightly over his. She felt the cool metal blade on the tip of her thumb but did not move her hand away. If he is going to kill me, let it be quick. She opened her eyes and watched as curiosity, anger and hate flickered across his face.
"Go," he rasped.
"No."
"I will kill you."
She gulped.
"Then do your best, because I'm not leaving."
He flexed his jaw, pushed the knife into her throat. The skin broke and she could feel the blood trickle down her neck. Here we go. Please let Pa know how much I loved him.
She held her breath and met his eyes.
Time stretched. His broad chest rose and fell as he exhaled onto her face.
She refused to look away.
He growled, flung her to the side and threw his knife. The wood split as the blade struck the tree. She checked to make sure he hadn't sliced her throat before he threw the knife. Blood smeared her fingers, and she pulled a handkerchief from her apron.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Otakatay pulled the knife from the tree. What in hell had the wasicun winyan been thinking? He glanced back at her. She sat on a tree stump blotting a white cloth to her neck. He'd cut her. Not enough to kill her, a nick from the tip of his blade to scare her. But it hadn't worked. Instead she'd challenged him with her blue eyes, pushed him to harm her.
He threw his knife again. Every muscle vibrated, wanting to release the energy alive and coursing rampantly through his veins. He should've smacked her. She'd be running away in fear then.
He shook his head. He didn't hit women. No, I only kill them. His stomach pitched. He looked at her again. He murdered women like her, women with kind smiles and bright eyes—women who haunted his dreams. He massaged his chest. He didn't want to think of them.
He grabbed his knife and slid it into the leather sheath strapped under the coat on his back.
"What do you want?" he barked.
She stopped dabbing her neck. "To be your friend."
He had no friends and didn't want any either. "I don't need a friend."
Without missing a beat she piped up, "Everyone needs a friend."
He saw sadness flicker across her face, and he stiffened. She was the one in need. He didn't give a shit what she needed. He wasn't it. There were plenty of wasichu in town she could mingle with. He went to Wakina, wrapped the leather reins around his hand and walked away. He heard her steps beside him. Why won't she go away? She was like a fly, a nuisance that hung around until you swatted it away or killed it.
He grunted. He'd tried that, and it didn't work.
He
"No. I think I'd like to stay."
"You do not get a choice," he uttered through clenched teeth.
He smelled of leather, smoke and a spice she couldn't quite put her finger on. She refrained from touching the feather in his hair, and instead stared into his troubled eyes. Sadness, anger and purpose melded together in the dark depths.
She smiled.
She never heard the sound of the blade until the tip pricked her throat. Black eyes, lethal and wicked, bore into hers. Tanned features tightened to conceal any hint of kindness and were replaced with evil and disgust. It was fascinating how he changed. How he masked any emotion other than hate and punched it forward onto his enemy, onto her.
She gasped. The enormity of his revulsion smashed into her, heavy and compressed. She felt dirty. Had her people done this to him? Had they mistreated him, pulling the hate from him, so anger was the sole emotion he displayed? Oh, if this was so, she needed to fix it. She needed him to see that not all white people were the same.
She closed her eyes. She had no idea where the courage came from to place her hand lightly over his. She felt the cool metal blade on the tip of her thumb but did not move her hand away. If he is going to kill me, let it be quick. She opened her eyes and watched as curiosity, anger and hate flickered across his face.
"Go," he rasped.
"No."
"I will kill you."
She gulped.
"Then do your best, because I'm not leaving."
He flexed his jaw, pushed the knife into her throat. The skin broke and she could feel the blood trickle down her neck. Here we go. Please let Pa know how much I loved him.
She held her breath and met his eyes.
Time stretched. His broad chest rose and fell as he exhaled onto her face.
She refused to look away.
He growled, flung her to the side and threw his knife. The wood split as the blade struck the tree. She checked to make sure he hadn't sliced her throat before he threw the knife. Blood smeared her fingers, and she pulled a handkerchief from her apron.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Otakatay pulled the knife from the tree. What in hell had the wasicun winyan been thinking? He glanced back at her. She sat on a tree stump blotting a white cloth to her neck. He'd cut her. Not enough to kill her, a nick from the tip of his blade to scare her. But it hadn't worked. Instead she'd challenged him with her blue eyes, pushed him to harm her.
He threw his knife again. Every muscle vibrated, wanting to release the energy alive and coursing rampantly through his veins. He should've smacked her. She'd be running away in fear then.
He shook his head. He didn't hit women. No, I only kill them. His stomach pitched. He looked at her again. He murdered women like her, women with kind smiles and bright eyes—women who haunted his dreams. He massaged his chest. He didn't want to think of them.
He grabbed his knife and slid it into the leather sheath strapped under the coat on his back.
"What do you want?" he barked.
She stopped dabbing her neck. "To be your friend."
He had no friends and didn't want any either. "I don't need a friend."
Without missing a beat she piped up, "Everyone needs a friend."
He saw sadness flicker across her face, and he stiffened. She was the one in need. He didn't give a shit what she needed. He wasn't it. There were plenty of wasichu in town she could mingle with. He went to Wakina, wrapped the leather reins around his hand and walked away. He heard her steps beside him. Why won't she go away? She was like a fly, a nuisance that hung around until you swatted it away or killed it.
He grunted. He'd tried that, and it didn't work.
He
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