Fourth Wing

A dragon without its rider is a tragedy. A rider without their dragon is dead.

“Killing you wouldn’t be any trouble, Violence. It’s leaving you alive that seems to cause the majority of my trouble.”

“Should I get the wingleader?” Tairn flat-out laughs in my head.

“I’m over here keeping my hands and memories to myself because you asked me to, and you’re fucking me with your eyes. That’s not playing fair.”

“And Rhiannon told me you found crushed flowers on your bed last week?” He stares me down.

I shrug. “They were just dead flowers.”

“They were mutilated violets.”

“And Rhiannon told me you found crushed flowers on your bed last week?” He stares me down.

I shrug. “They were just dead flowers.”

“They were mutilated violets.”

“Oh, Violence, you’re good, but I’ve known better poison masters. The trick is to not make it quite so obvious.”

“Chances are, if your opponent is in armor, it’s weak here. Those are three easy places you could have struck before your opponent would have had time to stop you.”

They’re also fatal wounds, and I’ve avoided those at all costs.

“Do you hear me?”

I nod.

“Good. Because you can’t poison every enemy you come across,”

I can’t let him win.

I slip one of my last daggers free and go for his shoulder.

He seizes my wrist and pins it above my head.

Shit. Shit. SHIT.

Heat rushes up my neck and flames lick my cheeks as he lowers his face so his lips are only inches away from mine. I can make out every speck of gold in his onyx eyes, every bump and ridge of his scar.

Beautiful. Fucking. Asshole.

Ignoring Xaden’s outstretched hand, I gain my feet and his lips curve into an approving smile. “She can be taught.”

“She’s a quick learner,” I retort.

“That remains to be seen.” He backs up two steps