Page 166 - Fourth Wing

annoy the fuck out of me.” I lift a hand to my shoulder and roll it, pressing

in on the sore muscles, but it doesn’t help the ache.
“Haven’t decided yet,” he answers, like I’ve just inquired about his

dinner preferences, but his gaze narrows on my cheek.

“Well, could you?” I mutter. “It would definitely help me make my plans
for the week.” Markham or Emetterio. Scribe or rider.

“Am I affecting your schedule, Violence?” There’s a definite smirk on

those lips.
“I just need to know what my chances are here.” My hands curl into fists.

The ass has the nerve to smile. “That’s the oddest way I’ve ever been hit

on—”
“Not my chances with you, you conceited prick!” Fuck this. Fuck all of

this. I move past him, but he catches my wrist, his grip light but his hold
firm.

His fingertips on my pulse make it skitter.

“Chances at what?” he asks, tugging me just close enough that my
shoulder brushes his biceps.

“Nothing.” He wouldn’t understand. He’s a damned wingleader, which
means he’s excelled at everything in the quadrant, even somehow managing

to get past his own last name.

“Chances at what?” he repeats. “Do not make me ask three times.” His
ominous tone is at odds with his gentle grasp, and shit, does he have to

smell so good? Like mint and leather and something I can’t quite identify,

something that borders between citrus and floral.
“At living through all of this! I can’t make it up the damned Gauntlet.” I

half-heartedly tug at my wrist, but he doesn’t let go.

“I see.” He’s so infuriatingly calm, and I can’t even get a grip on one of
my emotions.

“No, you don’t. You’re probably celebrating because I’ll fall to my death
and you won’t have to go to the trouble of killing me.”