I stared at the long, dark leather glove touching my hair, every single nerve ending in my body screaming for violence. His thumb brushed past my ear, utterly unfazed by the promise of murder I had just whispered into his face.
My hands, bound tightly together by six inches of heavy iron links, twitched. Without thinking, I raised both fists and slammed the iron chain down toward his chest with everything I had left.
Draven didn't even blink.
His gloved left hand shot up like a striking cobra, catching the center link of the chain mid-air with an iron grip that didn't yield an inch. The force of my swing rattled up my forearms, but Draven merely sat there, his arm extended, holding my bound hands suspended in the space between our chests.
"Still swinging," he observed dryly, his amber eyes glinting in the faint light of the amber crystal. "Though your form is slipping. You're throwing your shoulders too far forward."
