Текст книги "The wolf and the crown of blood"

Автор книги: Elizabeth May

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 33 страниц)

Let me. Such incongruous words, falling from the lips of this lovely, vicious god.

“All right,” I say.

Slowly, the Wolf takes my hand and flattens my trembling palm against the beat of his heart. His skin is warm through the thin fabric of his shirt. “Feel my heartbeat and match your breathing to it. Let everything else fall away.”

I do as he says, focusing on the drum of his heart against my fingers, the rise and fall of his chest as I time my inhales to his. Gradually, bit by bit, my racing pulse begins to calm.

“That’s it,” the Wolf murmurs. “Just like that. Keep your eyes on me and your breathing steady. Can you do that for me?”

I let out a shaky exhale and nod.

“I’m going to turn you around now. And when I let go, I want you to spread your arms out wide like they’re wings. Imagine you’re soaring. That you’re limitless and untethered. Understand?”

“Yes,” I say.

The Wolf’s hands are gentle as he rotates me with one arm locked around my waist, and the other a steady pressure between my shoulder blades, until there’s nothing between me and the sea below. “Arms out. Eyes up. You’re going to fall, and I’m going to catch you.” His lips brush my ear. “I’ll always catch you.”

And then he lets go.

For an instant, I’m suspended. Weightless. Everything in me seizes, screaming wrong wrong wrong—

The Wolf’s arms close around me, hauling me against him. “Breathe. I have you.” His heart thrums against my spine. “Do you trust me?”

The word lands like a blade between the ribs. Trust is such a small, simple thing, and handing it to the god who’s going to kill me is so dangerous. So stupid.

But I don’t want this to end yet.

“Just for today,” I say. “For this moment, I trust you.”

His exhale gusts across my nape. “Then fall, Devaliant. Fall and fly.”

And he releases me.

This time, I don’t fight the plummet. I surrender myself to gravity’s inexorable pull, the swoop and fall, the giddy lurch. As untethered and free as the birds wheeling above.

Strong arms snatch me out of the plunge. I slam into the Wolf’s chest with a breathless whoop, my hands finding his shoulders.

He grins. “Again?”

“Again,” I say, smiling back.

I lose track of the minutes. Of the dives and catches, the rushes of fear and excitement and impossible joy. All I know is his body pressed against mine, the drum of his heartbeat in my ears. I let the fear and the doubt all fall away, the hard, ugly things tangled like nettles around my heart. No past between us. No hate or splintered things. Just the wind and the sky and the sea. The two of us rising and falling, falling and rising.

I spread my arms wide and picture myself drifting, weightless. And when I tip back into the sky, it’s not a plummet. It’s flying.

The Wolf is always there to catch me.

I surrender to the rush, let the excitement sing through my veins, and when he pulls me to him after the final dive, I’m laughing, wild and breathless. I feel impossibly light.

The tower comes into view too soon. The Wolf lands in the center of the garden, his hands flexing on my hips before he sets me back on my feet.

For a long moment, we simply stare at each other, our breath slowing.

“Why?” I ask. “Why did you do this for me?”

His knuckles graze my cheek. I fight the urge to lean into it, to chase that fleeting warmth.

“It was something you needed,” he says. “And maybe I needed it too.”

I almost touch him back. Almost take his face in my hands and put all my words in the brush of my fingers across his skin. Because for a little while, we were both searching for the same nameless thing out there above the waves. Both wanting. Both unable to put that strange yearning into words.

But then he steps back and drops his hand. “Goodnight, Devaliant.”

The words are cool. Polite. A reminder of who and what we are, all tied up in meaningless pleasantries.

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26

EVANDER

THE AIR SMELLS like fear.

There’s a certain mélange that humans give off when they know death is coming. Usually, I like to take my time breathing it in, savoring the quiet before my work. The sights and sounds and scents of the next doomed village.

But tonight, I’m not alone on this hunt.

“Does this little display have a point, or are we just admiring the view?”

Bastien joins me on the cliff, his white hair gleaming silver in the moonlight. My brother and I have the same build—tall, broad shoulders, built for battle. Our wings used to contrast perfectly, his starry black to my gleaming gold. Now shadows writhe where his feathers should be, a reminder of what was stolen.

For a moment, I’m centuries younger, standing with my brother in another city. Before the war. Before the torture. Before I spent three days pouring magic into him while he screamed, the shadows growing out of the scars on his back.

And I nearly killed us both.

I roll my shoulders. “Killing is like fucking. I like to draw it out before I sink in.”

Before the war, that might have earned me a small smile. Maybe he would have made some comment about that demigoddess bartender we both had eyes for back in Vallenca. But Vallenca’s just rubble now, like the rest of our mother’s territory. Those days are as dead as the people we couldn’t save.

Some villagers scurry below, gathering kindling and tinder. That’s the fascinating thing about humans—all the different ways they prepare for death. Some run, others nest. I guess people will cling to whatever lie lets them sleep when the wolves are at the door.

Bastien’s black eyes meet mine, irises glittering with starlight. “You know,” he says, and the calm in his voice has me bracing for impact, “rumor has it you’ve gone soft recently. Forgot how to follow orders.”

I keep my face blank. “That so?”

“Alexios mentioned Keksa.”

And there it is. The real reason he’s up here on this cliff with me. Not out of brotherly concern—that ended with his wings—but as an excuse to slice me open and poke at my guts. Like I’m a math problem he can solve if he digs deep enough.

“Alexios needs a hobby,” I say with a dismissive flick of my fingers. “All that pent-up energy can’t be healthy.”

“Spare me the evasion. It’s beneath you.” Shadows writhe around him, coiling along his coat. “Selfishness, recklessness, the impulse control of a toddler—those are your specialties. Not cowardice.”

The irony of him questioning my behavior when he’s barely around to see it isn’t lost on me. Some days, I think he hates me. Hates the healing magic I used to give him the mockery of the wings he lost. He’s the reason I let that power atrophy until the Devaliant inspired me to use it, and if he ever found out, I think he’d dig around in my guts until I broke.

I look away. “It was a month ago, Bas. I was bored. Don’t overthink it.”

“I’m aware of the self-destructive behavior you turn to in boredom. That’s why I’m standing here.”

“Clearly. I’d never accuse you of standing here because you wanted a social visit with your brother.”

His eye twitches—on Bastien, that’s practically a flinch. “That’s your second evasion. Do I need to take over your work?”

“No. I’m fine. I told you it was just a whim.”

Lying is a skill, and lying to Bastien is an art. But what can I say? That I can’t stop thinking about her? That a Devaliant haunts my dreams? It’s obscene, the way I’m starving for her. Unacceptable. Every time I close my eyes, I see her. Feel the press of her body against mine. Her voice in my ear, mocking.

This is killing you, isn’t it? Wanting me.

“Are we doing this or not?” I growl, rolling my neck. “Places to destroy, people to traumatize. I’ve got a busy schedule.”

Before he can say another word, I launch off the cliff. Bastien follows closely behind me, those shadow wings spreading out in smoky tendrils.

I don’t hesitate or let myself think. I just reach for the bow at my back, the motions as mechanical as clockwork. Nock. Draw. Aim.

There’s something beautiful about that first moment of clarity. My mind goes quiet and my breath settles as the rage fills me like an old friend, swallowing everything—doubt, guilt, her face—until all that’s left is the bow in my hands and bodies waiting to fall. My arrow punches through a man’s neck, and I marvel at how clean it is. How easy. It’s always so damn easy once you get started.

Bastien doesn’t bother with the finesse of a tidy kill—he just tears through anything that moves.

“Please,” a man begs. My brother doesn’t even look at him as his shadows rip the man apart.

There’s a bleak sort of elegance in it, the brutal way he destroys. The way he tears apart the buildings and makes every death as violent and cathartic as possible. It’s his nature now, as breathing is to the living and rotting to the dead. But where Bastien is like a storm, I am precision violence. The killing calm. I place each shot where it’ll do the worst damage—throats, hearts, eyes. My focus stays on the ritual motions of draw-release-kill.

I orchestrate death like a symphony. With intention. A woman screams as her husband falls. Someone else begs me, and I place another shot. Doesn’t matter where they run or hide. There’s no escaping us. We’re the dark and all its teeth, and tonight, we’ve come to collect.

Through the haze of smoke and screams, I take in the scale of it. The magnitude of the ugly thing we’ve made of this place and its people. This is what we do. What I do.

Movement catches my eye—a woman with pale hair crouching low behind a cart. For a disorienting second, all I see is the Devaliant’s face. That same defiance in the set of her jaw.

So fragile. So painfully vulnerable in a world with no use for soft things.

Just for today. For this moment, I trust you.

I stumble with the force of the memory. It’s barely a blink, a tiny break in my focus, but it’s a crack in the armor wide enough for all those inconvenient flashes of humanity to come bleeding through.

Fuck.

Bastien lands beside me on silent feet, snowflakes drifting between the writhing shadows of his smoky wings. The flat void of his eyes meets mine, weighing. Assessing. Hunting for weakness.

“Something you want to tell me?” he asks.

I can’t look at her. Can’t risk him reading the sickness carved into my face. The hunger that’s eating me alive.

“Not a thing,” I reply.

Silence stretches between us. Without breaking eye contact, Bastien inclines his head toward the woman.

“Then I’m sure this won’t be a problem for you.”

I dredge up a brittle smile as my fingers tighten around the bow. “I’d hate to deprive you of the show.”

Nock. Draw. Aim.

Bastien isn’t only watching me. He watches her too, savoring each ragged breath, committing her terror to memory. And I know with certainty that he’ll remember this. That he’ll take this hesitation and use it like a crowbar to crack me open and dig through my insides until he finds the rot.

So I choke down my regret and let the arrow fly, watching as the light drains from a face that’s a breath away from being hers.

Whatever’s left of my conscience shrivels a bit more.

But monsters don’t get choices or happy endings, so I shut it out, shut it all out, until the only thing left is the mindless, mechanical repetition. Nock, draw, aim. Release. And again. And again.

It ends. Always does, eventually. The last body falls and silence creeps back in, and I’m left with the damning moment of uncertainty still infesting my thoughts.

“Want to tell me what the fuck that was about?” Bastien’s voice cuts through the quiet.

I keep my eyes on my bow. “Don’t know what you mean.”

“You hesitated.”

“My hand slipped.”

But he reads me. He always reads me. Something in my posture, some minute tell.

“Getting sentimental again, Wolf?” comes a voice from above, cold and pitiless as the void between stars. “That’s three times now.”

Fuuuuuuuck.

Alexios lands in a swoop of red and black wings, power lashing across my skin. There’s a promise of violence in his smile.

“Something under your skin again?” he asks pleasantly. “Another inconvenient flicker of humanity when you line up that killing shot after centuries of perfect service?”

I shove my feelings down and bury them deep. “Nothing I can’t cut out.”

“I just hate to see you making the same mistake you made in Hellevig,” Alexios says, settling his wings.

“What happened in Hellevig?” Bastien asks softly.

“The Wolf decided to play games with Bryony Devaliant instead of executing her,” Alexios says. His smile is a sharp reminder that he could reveal exactly what kind of game to my brother.

A betrayal.

Bastien’s gaze pins me like an insect under glass. “How merciful of you, Evander. Extending courtesy to a Devaliant.”

“She’s dead now,” I snap. “Where’s the problem?”

“Dead,” Alexios repeats, “but not by your hand. Now I have a city ready to tear itself apart because you still haven’t found them a corpse to weep over. I have Theodora Devaliant sending me messages down the Claim about riots in the streets because you left the killing to some human halfwit instead of doing it properly.” He stalks closer, power crackling around him. “This is how it starts, Wolf. First, you get sloppy. Then you get soft. Then you end up like our kin—strapped to tables while humans carve you up for parts.”

He casts a significant look over the smoldering rubble and ravaged bodies. “But I’m sure that’s not a lesson you need repeated. Is it?”

“It won’t happen again,” I say.

“No. It won’t.” Those crimson eyes cut to my brother. “Blade, you’re joining the hunt. Since your brother can’t complete a simple task, I need you to find what’s left of the princess.”

My stomach drops. No. No, no, no.

“If she’s in pieces,” he continues, “drag Severin into it. Have him use his magic to piece her rotting carcass together into something recognizable. I want a body. I want it in Hellevig. I want them to see her.”

Ice solidifies in my veins. I have to physically lock my muscles against a flinch. But Bas notices anyway—that minute tell, the panicked trip of my pulse.

He always could see right through me.

“On it,” he says, staring at me.

Alexios hums. “Good. Start in the forests beyond the ashlands. Lots of crows roosting out there, plenty of carrion for them to pick at.” He tips his head toward the sky. “Go on, then.”

Bastien’s jaw clenches. I know better than to assume he’ll let this go. He’s going to spend his nights examining it from every angle, puzzling out why his brother would let a Devaliant live even a moment longer than necessary.

I’m sure I’ll bleed for it.

Then he’s gone, launching into the air with a powerful sweep of his shadowy wings.

Alexios waits until my brother disappears before stepping in close. “Tired soldiers make mistakes,” he says softly. “Doubtful ones make betrayals. Be grateful I haven’t shared with big brother exactly what part of you was doing the thinking when you played games with the princess. Whatever’s poisoned you, dig it out, fuck it out, or carve it out. Understand?”

I nod. I hear his unspoken threat: Or I’ll do it for you.

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27

EVANDER

THE DEVALIANT HOLDS the blade as if she were born for it.

Her violet eyes narrow as she shifts her body into the correct form. The afternoon sun gilds her hair, turning silver to fire, and catches on her cheeks as she angles her head down. She’s focused. Lethal. Beautiful. I could watch her like this for hours.

Release.

The knife buries itself in the target across the garden with a satisfying thunk. My chest swells—with pride, maybe. Or is it possession? Every day she stays, it’s getting harder to tell the difference.

Because the truth is, I’m obsessed with her.

“Again,” Amara commands. “And this time, remember to breathe. You’re still holding too much tension in your shoulders.”

The Devaliant grips another blade. She inhales, shifts her weight forward, and lets the knife fly.

Gorgeous.

I walk over, letting out a low whistle. “Look at you, making progress with the knives you swindled out of me.”

Her head whips around. “Was that a compliment?”

“Treasure it—they don’t come often.” I glance at Amara. “Can I borrow you for a minute?”

Amara nods. “Keep practicing,” she tells the Devaliant, following me.

I lead her toward the crumbling remnants of a fountain choked with climbing roses. She crosses her arms over her chest, wings snapping, and I notice flashes of purple beneath the powder dulling their vibrancy. The true shade is one of a kind—as recognizable as mine.

“What is it?” she asks.

I shove my hands in my pockets, faking a calm I haven’t felt since I found those butchered bodies in Hellevig. “Does the name Rhosyn mean anything to you?”

She tilts her head, thinking it over. “No. Should it?”

“I’ve been hunting vermin in Vartena.” I keep my tone light, but memories of the warehouse flash through my mind—the body parts piled neatly, the stacks of blood-matted feathers. “The kind that trades in black market parts.”

She flinches. “Old or new?”

“New,” I say grimly.

“Fuck.” Her chest expands on a ragged breath. “Okay. Go on.”

“The place I stumbled across in Hellevig looked like the Bloody Court’s chop shops. Rhosyn’s name came up, along with the initials BC. I thought you might know something, given your familiarity with their particular brand of hospitality.”

At the mention of the Bloody Court, Amara freezes. Magic crackles through the air, and the ground trembles beneath my feet. It’s only a matter of time before she ascends. It’s getting to be a constant low-level pressure as the realm stretches itself to accommodate another Eternal; it’s carving out space for her.

“Names changed a lot in the pits,” she finally says. “Some we chose, others forced on us by—” She breaks off, swallowing hard. “Rhosyn’s not one I recall, but there’s a lot I carved out afterward. Some memories aren’t worth holding on to.”

I nod. Remembering is its own kind of cruelty. No matter how deep we bury the bodies, they always find ways to dig themselves back up. Haunting us in the midnight hours and scratch scratch scratching their way out of the silt.

“Of course,” I say. “If anything comes to you—any scrap of information—”

“I’ll tell you.” A humorless laugh. “Nothing quite like a stroll down that blood-soaked memory lane, right? Almost as fun as your walks through Turpori’s ashes.”

I wince. “Amara.”

“Just promise me something. If you have to bring Alexios into this, swear to me you won’t let him find me, okay? I don’t want him to know I was taken to the pits or what I did to survive it. He can’t—I need him to still think—”

Something in me gentles. Behind the hard exterior, she’s still that frightened girl who fought and killed and clawed her way through that nightmare, only to emerge with pieces of herself missing.

“You have my word.”

“I just… I hear the realm whispering, you know? And I think that means I’m going to become—”

“An Eternal. I know. I feel it.”

She plays with the ring on her finger. The only thing she’s kept that belonged to her Chosen. “I don’t know if I’m ready.”

“We’ll handle it.”

It’s been five centuries since my ascension. The memories have faded, leaving only impressions behind—the cold, the crushing pressure. The way magic shredded me apart before putting me back together. I had my brother with me when I crawled out of my own ashes, steadying me as the realm heaved and bucked to accommodate a new Eternal.

The price of godhood, my mother once told me, is that you have to die first.

“There’s a place far from any demis,” I tell her. “Where you can let go without collateral damage. I’ll help you through the worst of it.”

“Alexios and Severin are going to feel it,” she points out.

I shrug. “Then I’ll combust a mountain. Throw a destructive tantrum and let them think it was one of my moods.”

“And if Alexios skins you alive for it?”

“Nothing I haven’t endured before.”

She runs a hand through her hair, visibly composing herself. Her expression flattens, the walls bricking up. “Thank you,” she whispers.

“Yeah, well. Don’t mention it. Seriously, not a fucking word to anyone. I’ve got a reputation as a heartless bastard to maintain.”

Amara snorts, some of the tension easing from her shoulders. Her gaze drifts across the garden to where the Devaliant launches another blade. “She’s getting good. Fast reflexes, natural talent. Who would have thought?”

Pride flutters through me. “Me. Why do you think I let her live?”

“Because you’re dying to fuck her?”

“Such a filthy mouth. Why do I keep you around, again?”

Amara gives me a look. “Because I’m one of a handful of gods who can stand you, and you need as many friends as you can get. You want to tell me why you keep looking at her with those eyes?”

Fuck’s sake.

“What eyes?” I ask, playing stupid.

“You know what eyes, dumbass. Something’s shifting between you two.”

A memory flickers of the Devaliant in my arms as I flew with her over the Osbu. Her laughter when I caught her and pulled her close.

Just for today. For this moment, I trust you.

My chest squeezes. I shake off the image, burying the sense-memory down deep. “Nothing’s changing. We’re playing a game. She entertains me until she doesn’t.”

“Right.” Amara gives a short laugh. “Just entertainment.”

I count to ten and try to remember that when Amara isn’t being an irritating little shit, I actually enjoy her company. Strangling her would solve nothing. And it would be messy.

“Why do you care? You’re the one who dumped her in my garden and said, ‘She’s your problem now, asshole. Have fun killing her.’”

“Things change,” she says. “People, too—usually when we’re too busy looking the other way to notice. Suddenly, they don’t fit into the neat little boxes we’ve shoved them into.”

“Then I break their bones until they fit.”

Forgetting is not an option. Neither is forgiveness.

“Just remember,” she tells me. “Some games have no winners. Only casualties.”

A cold, hard knot keeps tightening in my gut. Time to shut this down before we both say shit we can’t take back.

“Stop,” I say flatly. “I’d hate for this to get unpleasant.”

Amara lifts a brow. “Unpleasant for whom? You? Me? Her?”

I don’t trust myself to answer. Jerking my chin toward the sky, I say, “Go on. I’ll finish out the lesson. And don’t forget to reapply the powder to your wings if you want to hide that color.”

Amara’s mouth thins, but she’s already stepping back and angling her body to prepare for flight. The wind picks up, stirring her dark wings.

“I’m going. But Evander? If you have to destroy her, don’t break her heart to do it.”

Then she launches skyward with a powerful downstroke that shakes the branches around me. I watch until she disappears behind the swaying trees, her words echoing like an accusation.

When you end that girl…

My hands clench at my sides. I can still feel the press of the Devaliant’s body against mine in the sky. The way she’d laughed—unguarded, just a little bit wild. The emotion in her eyes when I caught her. Trust. For a few hours, she’d trusted me up there in the clouds, and a part of me keeps itching to see her look at me like that again.

I’m going to have to cut that part out of me.

Some games have no winners. Only casualties.

The Devaliant doesn’t turn at my approach. Her attention is fixed on the neat row of blades placed on the table before her, but I know she senses me. I see it in the subtle tensing of her shoulders, the way her head tilts just slightly—listening and tracking me. As aware of me as I always am of her.

“Is Amara done playing teacher for the day?” She trails her fingers along a dagger’s edge.

“She has places to be. I’m taking over your training today.”

“Lucky me.” The Devaliant selects a dagger, testing its weight in her palm. “Let’s resume our game, then. I wouldn’t want to slack on my role as your entertainment.”

Shit.

“How much of that did you hear?”

“Whatever carried on the breeze, which was enough.” She flicks the blade back and forth, movements agitated. “Don’t worry about breaking my heart. I’m not stupid enough to give it to you.”

“And what if I took it?” I can’t help but ask.

When she looks at me, her eyes are sharp. “You’d have to carve it out of me.”

She’s throwing up her boundaries, retreating behind her armor. And who could blame her? We both know what this is.

I force my expression to remain impassive. Bored, even. No need to let her see how deep she’s burrowed beneath my skin. Wanting her doesn’t have to mean anything. Maybe fucking her would solve the problem.

I step forward until I’m crowding into her space, close enough to feel the heat of her and see the constellation of freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose. The flecks of silver threaded through the amethyst of her eyes.

“Where did Amara leave off?”

A shiver goes through her at my nearness. “Compensating for crossbreezes when throwing.”

Settling my hands on her hips, I pivot her to face the battered target. The movement brings her flush against me, and she lets out a quiet gasp that shoots straight to my cock.

“You have a bad habit,” I say, ghosting my palms up her sides, “of releasing your breath too soon. Power comes from here.” I splay my fingers beneath her ribs. “Your center. You need to exhale into the throw.” My thumbs find the dimples at the base of her spine and press in a gentle rebuke, watching her lashes flutter. “One fluid motion from here”—I tap her sternum—“to here.” I walk my fingers down her arm in a slow drag. “Understand? Center to extremity.”

Her lips part, and she swallows hard, her body yielding against mine as if she were made to fit there. Damn, I want to do terrible things to this woman.

Dangerous thought. Kill it.

I step away, giving her space. “Now draw back and sight the target. Account for distance, wind speed, and the arc of the throw. Then breathe in.”

She obeys, muscles flexing as she focuses. Her chest expands on an inhale.

“Breathe out. And let go.”

The Devaliant looses a controlled exhale—and then whips forward. The knife sinks into the target, this time a little closer to the center.

“Not bad.” I retrieve the weapon, pressing it into her waiting palm. “But this time, don’t treat it like archery. That’s more about the precise mechanics of the draw and release.” I curve my body around hers again. “Knife-throwing is a more intimate art.”

“How so?”

“It’s about learning to move your body just right. How to pivot. The angle of your arm. The timing of your breath…” I demonstrate the motion, letting her feel the roll of my hips. “Every part of you working as one. You have to learn the weapon’s weight and balance, how it sits in your hand. The right amount of pressure to apply at just the right moment.” My fingers trail up the inside of her arm, and she shivers like she can’t help herself. “You listen to what it’s telling you. How it wants to move.”

“And then?” A whisper.

“Then you build the tension.” Another demonstration, slower this time. “Draw back, feeling the anticipation grow. The way everything narrows down to the moment of perfect alignment. When you let the knife fly, it’s not about forcing it to hit the target. It’s about trusting that all that careful preparation and intimate knowledge will guide it.”

Her chest rises and falls quickly. “Like dancing.”

“Or seduction.”

She inhales sharply. “I… What?”

“You can’t just go through the motions and expect it to work. You have to pay attention. Learn how to touch them just right…” My hand slides down her side, settling on her hip. “To create the response you want.”

Another small noise escapes her—some quiet, needy sound. I pray to the stars for patience, and failing that, enough indifference to settle my hardening dick.

Control yourself, you pathetic fuck.

“Try again,” I tell her, stepping away. “But this time, stop thinking so much. Let your body remember what it wants to do.”

A change comes over her. Her muscles relax, and her fingers trail along the blade in a caress, like she’s learning it, understanding it. Her brows pinch in concentration as she draws back. The knife leaves her hand in a perfect arc, and then—

Thunk.

Dead. Fucking. Center.

“I did it!” She spins toward me, eyes bright with victory. “Did you see that? I actually—”

The words die as our eyes meet. Her eyes drop to my mouth, and I know—know—she’d let me kiss her. More than let me. She’s looking at me like she wants to shove me against the wall and take what she wants.

Do it, the monster in me snarls. Take her mouth. Make her yours.

Calm. The fuck. Down, the rational part of me snaps back.

I can’t stop myself from reaching out and trailing my knuckles along her cheek. “You did well.”

We’re standing too close. Close enough that I can feel her breath on my face, see the way her pupils have blown wide. All I’d have to do is lean down a few inches…

She blinks hard, like she’s coming out of a trance, and steps back. “I think that’s probably enough for today. Can we pick up again tomorrow?”

“I won’t be able to do any blade work with you for a few days.”

The Devaliant’s brows pinch. “Why?”

I tip my head back, considering the sky and its darkening swathes of teal and violet. The familiar tension is already gathering, my body harmonizing with the magic in the air—the call of the realm. “Have you ever heard of Aethertide?”

The furrow deepens. “No. Should I have?”

“It’s a celestial event that occurs here every century or so. A realignment of polarities and energies that brings a spectacle to the skies.” I slide her a look, curious how she’ll take this. “It also triggers a biological imperative in Scillari’s inhabitants. Especially the males.”

Color floods her cheeks. “It induces rut? In everyone?”

“Only the unattached.”

“And you’re…”

“Very much unattached.” I give her a quick smile. “Humans nearly wiped out the Eternal population during the war, and it destabilized the magic. Scillari has been trying to compensate ever since.”

“By triggering the drive to”—she waves a hand, that blush deepening—“mate.”

I nod. “Two powerful demis can create a future Eternal. It’s up to the realm to decide if a demi is worthy of ascension to claim a territory. Scillari needs at least eight Eternals to remain stable. Ten is preferable.”

“I suppose that makes sense.” The Devaliant clears her throat, hesitating. “You mentioned the war created an imbalance in your numbers. I thought only Eternals could kill other Eternals. How did humans manage to take out enough of you that the realm’s still compensating centuries later?”