Текст книги "The wolf and the crown of blood"

Автор книги: Elizabeth May

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 33 страниц)

“I’ll think about it,” I mutter, hating myself.

Silence stretches. The crackle of branches echoes through the garden as a breeze rustles the trees. The snow falls harder.

“Can I tell you a secret?” she whispers.

I resume stroking her back. “Tell me all of them.”

“No. Just one.” She says it firmly, a reminder that I’m entitled to precisely nothing more than what she’s willing to give. “Being yanked back from the Void hurts. It’s the worst pain you can imagine—worse than the blade. The world doesn’t feel real after because a part of you is still trapped in that nothing between your last breath and your first. Every time you die, you lose more pieces of yourself. And it drives every Anchor mad.”

There’s a sudden twinge behind my ribs, a terrible squeezing. I brace for her next words.

“Let me send Theo letters,” she says, and it’s as close to begging as I’ve ever heard from her. “So she’s holding something real before she loses me for good.”

Fuck. This girl and her goddamn feelings.

I haven’t been burdened by sentiment in a long time. I’d almost forgotten the shape of it, that sharp wrench of emotion that leaves a hollow ache. With a few words, she’s twisted me up, and the rational part of me is shouting that I shouldn’t care. She’s just the human I’m using. Her sister called me a glorified carrier pigeon.

“Fine,” I hear myself say. “If you write, I’ll deliver your letters.”

Oh, you stupid fuck.

“Thank you.”

Two small words that shouldn’t feel so consequential. Why do they? Why? Why? She’s just entertainment. I’ll grow bored—I always do. But I think when I get her out of my system, she’s going to take a piece of me with her.

I let out a bitter laugh.

“What’s funny?” she asks.

“You could have the entire realms in the palm of your hand, couldn’t you?” I tilt her chin up, staring into those violet eyes. “A girl like you takes what she wants. How much would satisfy you?”

She goes still, pulse spiking. “All of it,” she whispers.

“All of it, huh? Including me?” I slide my hands down her thighs. “All of me?”

I’ve revealed too much. Given her a weapon shaped like my wanting, and placed it right in her vengeful little hands.

Something constricts in her features, an emotion I have no name for. No frame of reference. And then it’s like a door slams shut.

“Stop.”

“What?” I ask, blinking at her.

She slides off my lap, putting space between us. “We’re not doing this. Don’t talk to me or touch me like you care what I want,” she says calmly, almost cold. “Just be honest about what this is.”

Pull yourself together, asshole.

My face hardens into a mask of cold detachment, a lifetime’s practice of cruelty and distance. She’s given me the perfect opportunity to reestablish lines and cut all the emerging sentiment out of me. Cauterize it like an infected wound.

“Truth, then?” I ask her softly. “If you think you can worm past my defenses into some soft, weak place, that’s not going to happen. I’m sweet on you now because it amuses me, but don’t mistake my amusement for affection. Don’t think for one second that I care if you live or die beyond how much entertainment I can wring out of you first.”

There’s a terrible sort of knowing in her expression. “Thank you for reminding me you’re not any different from Alexios. You’re just another Eternal using me up before you finish me off.”

She disappears into the tower and slams the door shut.

The snow keeps falling, silent and relentless, and I think about impermanence. About things that melt with the dawn.

About the life I had before her family took it from me.

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20

BRYONY

THE WEEKS PASS in a blur. I wake up sore and aching, train with Amara until my vision blurs, the Wolf heals me, and then I do it again.

Shatter. Rebuild. Repeat.

When you’re raised for the altar, fury lives under your skin with nowhere to go. Nothing to sink its teeth into. Nothing to push against. A body’s just a vessel, and an Anchor’s body always breaks. Now, I’m learning that my body can be a weapon.

I’ve never felt it grow strong, never experienced the rush of letting all that wrath out and pushing past limits I didn’t know existed. So I seek it out—the control, the rage, the cuts, the bruises. Calluses harden my palms from clutching hilts and handles. I have muscles where there used to be softness.

And the Wolf watches me. There’s something about being the sole focus of a god’s attention that makes your blood run hot, even when you despise him.

Especially when you despise him.

I haven’t spoken to him since that night in the snow, and I’m savoring every second of his frustration. Every ignored attempt at conversation. Every time I walk by him like he’s furniture. Like he’s nothing.

The hallway encounters are my favorite. The way his jaw clenches and his wings flare slightly, instinctively trying to block my path. I brush past without acknowledging him. He’s used to humans crawling on their bellies for him, and I want him to taste what it’s like to want what he can’t have. Right now, his damaged pride is what’s keeping me alive.

He’ll want to conquer me before he kills me.

“Get up.” Amara’s wings block out the sun as she looms over me. “Lying there won’t save your ass in a real fight.”

“I could play dead,” I mutter, pushing myself up. “If I get good enough at it.”

She snorts. “Adorable. What’s the first rule?”

“Keep my weight on the balls of my feet. Stay fluid. Be ready to move.”

“Then why are you standing there like you’re posing for a portrait?”

She lunges, but this time I’m prepared. My blade meets hers with an impact that rattles my teeth.

“Better.” She eases back, something almost proud in her expression. “But you’re still in your head too much. Real combat is in your blood. Either you feel it, or you die. A god is stronger, faster, and powered by actual magic.”

“I only need to survive three days in Vartena,” I say. “Get through the guards, gut my uncle, and maybe damage the Wolf as petty revenge before he finishes me. I’m not trying to take on every demi in Scillari.”

“I don’t do things by halves, and you never know what might happen. You live longer if you keep him interested, right? Nothing interests a god that deranged more than a challenge. So if you’re going to fight, make it worth watching. Stop overthinking your footwork.”

I wipe the blood from my split lip. “And what happened to all that talk about proper form?”

She rolls her eyes. “Form is just the foundation, and you already know that. Now you learn how to cheat. It’ll keep the Wolf on his toes. Gods are arrogant bastards who expect humans to cower and beg. Use that.”

“What if they expect resistance?” I ask.

“Then give them submission until you’re close enough to slip steel between their ribs.”

*   *   *

The Wolf always comes at night.

I’m perched on the bed wearing only my shift, counting the new bruises and scrapes scattered over my skin, when he appears in my doorway. No knock. He doesn’t ask permission.

He tosses a folded letter onto the mattress beside me. “From your sister.”

I offer him the barest nod—the only acknowledgment he’s gotten from me for three weeks. I write to Theo, he delivers the letters, she writes back, and he brings them when he comes to heal me. That’s it. That’s all he gets.

He settles against the pillows next to me. “Come here.”

I let him pull me into his lap without protest. This is a dance we’ve perfected. His hands find my skin under my chemise, and that now-familiar heat sinks in, soothing away the day’s damage.

“The silent princess act is beneath you.” He says this a lot, as if it’ll irritate me into speaking. His thumb traces the curve of my shoulder. “It’s starting to piss me off. How much longer are we going to play this game? It’s been nearly a month, Devaliant.”

I stare at the wall, my jaw clenched. His power pulses through me, and I press my teeth together to keep from moaning. The bastard’s learning my tells. He knows exactly how to brush and drag his magic against every part of me in a caress of warmth and light intended to make me crave things I shouldn’t. As if every nerve ending is being kissed awake.

I count the cracks in the ceiling. One. Two. Three.

“Look at me.”

Four. Five.

“Look at me.” His voice is dangerous now. Hungry. His grip on my waist tightens. “Say you hate me. Say you want me dead.”

I shift my focus to the roses creeping across my chamber walls. They’ve been spreading for weeks, as if his magic can’t help but bleed into every corner of this space, making it his. Making it ours.

“Are you trying to bore me?” he snaps. “Trust me when I say you won’t enjoy what comes next.”

I finally meet his eyes. Then finish me, I say with my glare. Do it.

A muscle in his jaw twitches. “I get it. You’re provoking me, aren’t you?” His mouth curves into a cruel smile. “Baiting the god into throwing away his new toy?”

Toy. Something dark must show in my expression because his face sparks with triumph.

Got you, that look says.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, skimming his touch over my ribs. “I’ve been thinking about it. Toys don’t speak, do they? They just…” His palm grazes the underside of my breast. “They just sit still and let themselves be played with. They take what they’re given.”

His fingers inch higher, brushing my nipple through the fabric. I seize his wrist, digging crescents into his skin.

“Problem?” His eyebrow arches. When I don’t answer, his other hand wraps around my throat. “I said, do you have a problem with my hands on you, toy?”

When I do nothing but scowl at him, he shoves another pulse of power into me. Harder. A tidal wave of sensation that sends a lick of heat and white-hot pleasure between my thighs—designed to get me to submit. I bite my lip against a whimper.

“Maybe I should Claim you.” His breath ghosts over my ear. “I could make you do whatever I wanted if I did. I could have you on your knees, crawling at my feet and thanking me for the privilege.”

That’s it. I’ve had it.

I shove him down, plant my palms against the mattress on either side of his head, and say my first words to him in weeks. “If you want some proxy to take your anger out on, there are thousands of Unclaimed humans in Vartena you could torment without breaking the Accords. Some must have ancestors who fought in Scillari during the war. You told me you have a history with Devaliants, so what did my family do to make you hate us? What made you focus on me?”

His irises flash with inner flame, and his hands flex as if he’s fighting for control, holding himself back from murdering me.

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

“Right,” I say quietly. “You only want my voice when you know you’ll like what it says. When it doesn’t ask inconvenient questions.” I push off his lap, putting space between us even as my skin hums with the memory of his touch. “If you ever threaten to Claim me again, I’ll walk out that door and let Amara gut me herself. Now get out.”

*   *   *

Three days later, I’m getting my ass kicked again.

“Who taught you to fight like this?” I ask Amara.

For a long moment, she’s silent. Then, “My brother. Without his lessons, I’d be dead a dozen times over.”

“During the war? Is that when you hurt your wing?”

“No.” The word is sharp, final. A door slamming shut.

Before I can apologize, Amara comes at me fast. I block, the impact jarring up my arm, but I’m learning. I attack, putting everything I have into it. Our blades collide. She sidesteps, but I’m already adjusting, already moving. It feels natural now.

Advance. Retreat. Pivot.

Dance.

We trade more blows, the clash of metal punctuated by our harsh breathing. I clench my teeth and push through the burning in my muscles. She spins lightning-quick and cracks the flat of her blade against my wrist. My weapon goes flying.

I don’t even think—just move. But she’s already there, sweeping my legs out from under me. The breath leaves my lungs in a rush as my back slams into the ground.

Amara’s boot lands on my chest, pinning me. The tip of her dagger kisses the hollow of my throat. “And you’re dead. You yield?”

“Yield.”

She sheaths her blade and extends a hand. I let her haul me up, trying not to wince at the fresh constellation of bruises blooming beneath my skin.

“Not bad. We’ll keep working on your stamina,” Amara says, brushing dirt from her clothes. “But you need to remember the three rules of fighting gods: hurt them from a distance, run fast, and hide well. Getting close enough for them to grab you? That’s the end. You have to focus on—”

Her eyes flicker over my shoulder, and a wry smile twists her lips.

With a slow, dreadful certainty, I turn.

The Wolf lounges against the archway. The last rays of the dying sun paint his wings in shades of amber and russet, each feather edged in light until he glows.

Something clenches in my chest—a snarl of emotion too tangled to unravel. He leaves me off-balance, as exposed as an open wound.

You’re just another Eternal using me up before you finish me off.

And he is. He’s evaluating me. Taking inventory of his weapon, checking for damage, making sure his toy still works properly. That’s all this is.

I shove down the mess of feelings and lock them away, turning to Amara.

“Thanks for today,” I tell Amara, forcing my voice to stay steady. “Same time tomorrow?”

“Yeah.” She glances between us, and her smirk widens. “Your girl needs throwing knives, Wolf.”

He lifts a brow, keeping that burning gaze on me as if I’m the only thing in the world worth watching. “Does she?”

“You wanted her trained. She needs to be able to throw fast and hit what she’s aiming at every time.”

The Wolf makes a considering sound. His eyes travel over my sweaty skin, lingering over the cut on my arm and the bruises darkening my collarbones. My chest rises and falls as my breath quickens. It feels like being touched, that stare. Intimate and possessive. Claiming me without laying a finger on me.

“I want her kitted with at least four throwers,” Amara continues, either oblivious to the rising tension or content to ignore it. “Good ones.”

The Wolf blinks and looks away. “I’ll consider it. If she proves she’s worth four Turpori blades.”

Then he’s gone, pushing off the wall and disappearing into the tower. The air seems lighter without him. Easier to breathe.

Amara leans in close. “Did you see the look on his face? That’s a male trying real hard to pretend he doesn’t want the one thing he shouldn’t touch. That’s power, little human. Use it before he uses you.”

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21

EVANDER

THREE HUNDRED YEARS ago, I realized the Vartenan fleshtrade was so vast that it covered the entire realm.

Traders had their systems down to an art—networks of buyers and sellers in every major city, bribes to grease the right palms, secret knocks and codes passed in whispers. It wasn’t only parts of us for sale, either. In some places, gods were caged up, beaten, and used in blood sports for human entertainment. Humans bet a lot of aurelii to watch us fight to the death.

But black markets have vulnerabilities, and all it takes is one addict running his mouth and mentioning demi parts being sold at the docks.

I haven’t forgotten about that prick in Valchek last month. Zephyr’s been doing some digging while investigating the missing demis held on Silk Street, and while there’s no information on the victims, she picked up a trail. We’re here to see where it leads.

My wings rustle as I roll my shoulders, loosening up my limbs. Ready for anything. I’m with Elias and Arcadia on a roof opposite a run-down warehouse on the outskirts of Hellevig—a possible source for the operation in Valchek. My magic spreads over us, twisting the light to make us invisible.

What’s the situation from your end, Zephyr? I ask into the mind-link Alexios is keeping open between my team.

Zephyr walks the perimeter down at street level, her black wings melting her into the shadows. Nothing moving inside that I can see. Zephyr’s mental voice is cool and composed, as always. Not much in the way of visible security. Either they’re cocky, or this is a trap.

I scan the building again. It’s thick stonework with a flat roof and a couple of small windows dotted across the facade. The side has faded paint that reads, J. Smith & Co. Medicinal Supplies. The door on the east wall looks promising for entry.

Any specific intel on who owns this shithole? I ask her.

No. My contacts flagged some unusual shipping patterns from here over the past few months. Someone was trying to obscure cargo manifests and cover tracks, but I followed a financial trail to Valchek. It wasn’t easy.

“Fuckers,” Arcadia mutters.

“They always slip up, eventually.” Elias taps his finger impatiently against his thigh. “I haven’t seen dust demand this high since right before the Devouring. Fleshtraders are getting bold again.”

Dust. Human slang for the remains of our dead. Wings are worth the most—a higher concentration of magic—then come the bones and organs, desiccated and ground up for easy consumption.

Alexios cuts in, his presence flooding the mind-link from his throne in Asteria. Get this done fast and clean, he says. Take prisoners for interrogation. Pull out any survivors. Then, to Zephyr alone: No risks, Whisper.

Sometimes, I wonder if he even realizes how his voice changes when he speaks to her. If anything ever happened to his spymaster, Alexios would tear the realms apart twice over.

Hold the perimeter, I tell Zephyr. Signal if you spot trouble.

I jump off the roof with Arcadia and Elias right behind me. We touch down in the alley, and I kick the door in, wood splintering around my boot. A chemical stink hits me, sharp enough to make my eyes water. Beneath that is the heavy thrum of magic. Fresh magic.

Shelves line the walls, filled with various herbs and medicines. To my left is a large wooden icebox to control the room’s temperature—typical of chop shops. Rows of ceramic, tin, and glass containers fill the rest of the space.

Elias examines the cases, making a slow circuit. “Old apothecary cold storage is an ideal front for a chop shop when you think about it. Formaldehyde and surgical spirits mask a lot.”

Arcadia cracks open a lid and gags. “Like putting a slaughterhouse in a perfumery.”

I take stock of entries and exits for any potential hiding places. If these fleshtraders are consuming god parts, that means they have enough power at their disposal to put them on par with a demi. They could harm or even kill my team if we’re not careful.

“Spread out,” I say. “Clear the building room by room. Watch for traps.”

Elias and Arcadia go right while I cover the left. The whole place groans and settles around us. Other than that, it’s quiet. My magic buzzes under my skin, ready to let loose.

Arcadia’s voice sounds in my head. Wait. Do you hear that?

Yeah, I do—a rhythmic noise filtering through the walls.

Tick-tick-tick.

Tick-tick-tick.

Detonators clicking down.

And under the ticking, buried beneath the stink of chemicals—

“Get out!” I snarl. “I smell powdered Turpori steel!”

I spin, running to the others and grabbing Arcadia, practically throwing her at the busted door. Elias ducks under my arm and clears the threshold in seconds.

Wolf! Zephyr’s shout. Get your ass out of there!

I’m already mentally mapping out the blast radius. A structure like this will have all the load-bearing supports rigged with enough charges to reduce it to rubble. Even trace amounts of powdered Turpori steel will sear a demi’s lungs, but the concentration I smell lacing the ordnance? It’ll punch right through our healing and might actually slaughter my team if they don’t get far enough from the explosion.

But for an Eternal, it will only hurt like a bitch.

I’m going to shield the blast, I say. I’ll see if there are any survivors.

I pound down the stairs. The lower level opens into a corridor, and I make a sharp left, winding my way deeper until I hit a reinforced steel door pocked with rust. I kick it open with my boot.

The stench slams into me. I’m suddenly thrown back to the war, to my last raid, all the memories overlapping with the present.

Uneven stone walls rise on all sides. Viscera clots the gaps between the flagstones, gone nearly black. Manacles dangle overhead, the chains thick with rust and bits of flesh, and spattered across every surface is blood. Liters of it. A table dominates the floor, crosshatched with deep gouges—a dissection slab. And splayed on that platform…

Carnage. Mangled limbs and organs. And the feathers—jet, red, purple, gold—ripped out and heaped in piles.

But this isn’t centuries ago. It’s now, and it’s happening again.

You never really leave the war behind, my brother once told me. No matter how much time or distance you put between yourself and the killing fields.

None of us ever climbed out of those trenches. The war keeps following us, sinking in its teeth and claws and dragging us down again.

“Fuck,” I breathe.

Three dead, I relay to the others, grabbing a fistful of blood-matted feathers and tucking them into my armor to bring back for identification. No survivors or signs of any fleshtraders. They must have caught wind of us and bailed. Stay away while I deal with the blast.

I don’t wait for a response. My power is already building. I cast out my senses, mapping every charge as I sink to my knees. My wings flare wide as fire roars through me, searing paths of heat beneath my skin as I shape the energy into a shield.

Everything goes white.

The detonations rip through the warehouse. Stone pulverizes to dust, support beams shatter, and wood sprays like shrapnel. Blood trickles down my face—the Turpori steel burning my skin as I hold the shield.

I take the destruction and give it focus, shaping the explosion with my will and super-heating the rubble until the stone glows red and there’s nothing left of the butchered demis. Sublevels collapse in a controlled implosion, directing the devastation down, down, down…

Until all that’s left is settling debris and smoke, the crackle of embers, and the groan of a building gutted to its bones. The neighboring buildings remain intact without so much as a cracked window. But in the epicenter? There’s only a crater with smoldering detritus.

I let the shield fall away and rise from the wreckage. My shirt hangs in bloody tatters, wounds weeping as flesh knits back together. I’ll be sore for hours, but I’ve survived worse.

I sweep my gaze over the rubble a final time. A flash of something under a half-burnt chunk of wood snags my attention—a little book, somehow still in one piece, even with everything blasted to shit around it. I yank it out and shove it into my jacket, launching skyward.

The others are waiting in the alley when I drop down.

Elias gives me a once-over. “You look like shit warmed over.”

“Fuck you very much,” I snap, shooting him a withering glare.

“Did you find anything?” Arcadia asks.

I pull out the charred book and hold it out to Zephyr. “Most of it’s torched.”

She takes it from me, fingers gentle as she flips open the cover and scans the blackened page. “Looks like a ledger. Full set of primaries. Previous asking price doubled.”

An image crashes through my mind of wings cut off and plumage matted with blood.

She turns the page, continuing grimly, “Marrow and viscera potency tested. Delivery arranged via blind drop. Rhosyn delivered. Twice confirmed with BC contact, ready for processing—”

Ice crystallizes in my veins. “BC. The Bloody Court?”

Elias swears under his breath. “Someone’s resurrecting the pits.”

Where demigods were made to hack each other apart for the amusement of humans. Where my brother spent weeks being tortured and violated while I searched for him. Amara, even longer.

“Does Rhosyn mean anything to you?” I ask Zephyr, forcing the words past the lump in my throat. “Some kind of code?”

She stares at the page as she thinks. “Maybe. Or a name? Whatever it means, they’re getting the shipment of dust.”

I think of broken wings. Desecrated flesh. Survivors on killing room floors, waiting for death or worse. A familiar hatred shudders through me—the need to slaughter, to make every fucker who did this pay for it.

Clenching my jaw, I carefully pull the feathers out of my armor. “For identification and funerals.”

Zephyr handles them reverently. “I’ll give Alexios my report. I’m still following leads on more missing demis. If I have any new information, we may need to act fast. They’ll be more careful after this. Elias? With me.” She glances at me and Arcadia, her expression softening a fraction. “Get some rest.”

Arcadia and I watch them launch into the sky. Their silhouettes shine against the stars for a moment before they disappear into the night.

“Are you okay?” she asks, silver wings rustling.

“I’ll heal.”

“Not what I meant.”

There’s worry in those mercury eyes. Understanding. Arcadia lost her brothers in the Devouring; she knows how it feels to lose part of yourself. We all do.

“No,” I say quietly. “I’m really fucking not.”

Her hand finds my forearm. “What do you need?”

You, I want to say. Make me feel something.

Arcadia would let me lose myself in her if I asked. I could stay at the palace and fuck her until my thoughts go quiet—I’ve done it a hundred times before. I know how to shatter her and put her back together, how to make her scream in pleasure. It would be easy to let her numb the hurt for a little while.

But when I picture the female beneath me in my bed, it’s not Arcadia I see.

It’s the Devaliant, staring up at me with those defiant violet eyes. Her silvery hair spread across my sheets. Her body moving against mine.

And she’s a reminder of every damn thing that happened to my realm.

I’m so disgusted with myself that I can’t even look at Arcadia. “Go home. I’ll deal with it.”

*   *   *

Memories batter against the inside of my mind as I stride down the hall of my tower.

Butchered bodies. Feathers removed and stacked. Rhosyn delivered. Twice confirmed with BC contact.

Turning the corner, I jerk to a halt. No. Fuck, no.

The Devaliant lingers outside the one door I warned her never to approach. Her fingertips ghost over the obsidian seal in the center, tracing the edges gone soft with age.

I move in a blink, slamming my hands against the wood on either side of her, my lips at her ear. “Devaliant. I believe I made myself crystal fucking clear about this door. It. Stays. Shut.”

She inhales sharply, a subtle tremor rolling through her. “I wasn’t going to open it. I was just… curious.”

“Well, fuck me, she speaks,” I say with a bitter laugh. “A whole damn month of the silent treatment, and now she’s found her voice.”

A muscle tics in her jaw. Oh, I’ve pissed her off now. Good. She can give me exactly what I need to numb myself tonight.

Burn hotter, vicious girl. Let me taste your fury.

“I want to negotiate—”

“No.” She’s always pushing, testing boundaries. Trying to negotiate. “No throwing knives. No bartering. No deals, Devaliant. Not tonight.”

Not when I’m one wrong breath away from coming out of my skin entirely. Not when she belongs to the family responsible for every festering hurt, every memory. All the ways I’m cracked and broken until I became this.

Slowly, the Devaliant twists to face me. Those violet eyes flick over my gore-splattered and dusty clothes. Quick. Assessing. As if she’s trying to get a read on me. Trying to find the broken bits she can press on until something fractures for her.

“This is how you come home every night, isn’t it?” she asks softly. “After killing oathbreakers?”

That’s where she thinks I’ve been. Stacking bodies. Slitting the throats of more precious Vartenans. And why wouldn’t she? That’s all I am to her—the killer, the monster, the nightmare they tell stories about. She has no clue what I saw tonight. Because why would it even occur to her that her people have been butchering and consuming us for centuries? That while she considers the war a distant past, some of us are still sifting through the wreckage and finding corpses to bury?

And why correct her? Why tell her the truth when the lie is so much more useful?

“That’s right, Princess. Every damn night.” I flash a vicious grin. “Sometimes I don’t even wash the blood off before dinner. Sometimes I let it dry on my skin because I like how it feels.”

I track the shallow rise and fall of her chest, the pulse in her throat. I could sink my teeth into that spot and taste her terror. Could press my fingers there until she begged me to let her breathe.

What an easy target she is tonight. Such a perfect distraction.

Tough luck, Devaliant. You’re the only thing in reach, and I’m all out of mercy.

“You want to know how killing them feels?” I ask, voice low. “Righteous. Like I was made for it. Shaped for it. It makes me feel alive when everything else is static. And when it’s over, I’m just hungry. For the next. And the next. And the next and the next. No fucking bottom. I could slaughter every last one of you and still wake up starving.”

“Stop it,” she whispers.

That plea only feeds the hunger. The dark, twisted part of me that wants to push until she snaps.

A cruel, mocking laugh shivers out of me. “Aw, listen to you beg just like they do. I honestly expected more from you, Princess. You’re boring me. All that promise, all that potential, and you’re just another disappointment, aren’t you?”

Boring. The word I promised would be her death sentence. Never let it be said that I don’t know exactly which of her wounds to press on. I want her to claw at me, wreck me, crack me open. Dig her nails into my skin. I’ll still be here demanding more, harder, now. Better for her to see the butcher than someone falling apart.

The effect is instantaneous. I notice the moment it registers, the way her eyes snap up, bright with rage.

Yeah, that’s it. There’s the fire. Good girl. Give it to me.

“Boring,” I say again when she doesn’t rise to the bait. When all she does is pant in these shallow little gasps. “Maybe Amara’s lessons didn’t teach you shit after all. Did her goodwill finally bleed the fight out of you, huh? Or is this what you were like on the altar?” I ask to twist the knife that much deeper. “Lying there so fucking obediently every time they sank that dagger in? I bet you begged then, too. I bet you cried. I bet you were pathetic.”