Текст книги "The wolf and the crown of blood"

Автор книги: Elizabeth May

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 33 страниц)

7

BRYONY

DEFT FINGERS PLUCK and prod at my hair. The maids twist the pale mass into an elaborate style with loops and curls studded with gems, gossiping about my coming nuptials.

“… heard the Redorans brought three entire rail cars just for the bridal gifts!” one whispers as she wrestles another pin into place. “Spices from Havenridge and enough silk to dress the court twice over.”

Theodora used to tell me a story about a songbird that lived in a golden cage. The nobles who kept it would decorate its wings with jewels until their “gifts” made flying impossible. They called it kindness, devotion. Love.

I think about that damn bird a lot lately.

“Her Highness is so fortunate,” Marigold sighs. “Lord von Reding is gorgeous. I hear he’s very skilled with his—”

“Marigold!” The eldest maid cuts her off with a scandalized hiss.

The maids are putting the finishing touches on my hair and cosmetics when familiar footsteps approach. I glance up to see my sister stride into the room, resplendent in the traditional red silks of a Lucinian wedding ceremony. Scarlet for the guests, silver for the bride—the colors meant to symbolize the blood we give and the Shroud itself.

She pauses on the threshold. “You’re not dressed yet? I thought Idris wanted the ceremony to begin at moonrise.”

I switch to Lybräian so the servants won’t follow our conversation. “He wants me to make an entrance after the guests are drunk enough to appreciate whatever spectacle he has planned.”

Theodora drifts closer, green eyes sweeping over the organized chaos of combs and cosmetics that litter the vanity’s surface. “And what did Idris decide you’re wearing?”

“My gown is designed to tear away with a yank. A thoughtful addition from the couturier at Idris’ request. He called it a ‘marital aid.’”

“He. What.”

“Mmhm. I won’t be surprised if von Reding starts pawing at me before we’ve even left the altar.” I pause, biting my lip. “Theo. Did you know Idris plans to marry you off by the year’s end?”

Her hand clenches into a fist, nails digging into her palm.

“I heard him arranging it with Lord Dunne,” I continue, watching her face darken. “The plan is to chain you to some inbred nobleman from Brevig to secure a new trade deal. He says there’s no excuse for you to still be unmarried without children at twenty-three.”

“That bastard,” she hisses under her breath.

The maids begin lacing me into my wedding dress, pulling the stays so tight I can barely breathe. When they finally release me from their clutches, I’m cinched into a gown of silver shot through with a webwork of shimmering rubies. A heavy choker rests against my collarbones—deliberately placed to hide the scar on my throat.

“It’s perfect, Highness!” Marigold gushes. “Wait until Lord von Reding sees you!”

“Here’s hoping he’s struck dead on the spot,” I say cheerfully.

The maids titter before making their exit.

The instant the door clicks shut, Theodora rounds on me. “I can’t marry. There are… things I need to figure out first. I don’t think I can have children. Not yet.”

“I don’t want to either, but—”

“No.” She grabs my hand. “Listen to me. I dream about it. I keep seeing Odessa’s body at the bottom of the tower, over and over and over.”

My lungs seize. The memory hits me—Theodora stumbling into my room, dress smeared with blood not her own. She’d been the one to find our cousin after Odessa threw herself from the Celestine Tower. Another Devaliant who couldn’t bear the weight anymore.

No one in my family has made it past the age of fifty since the Godkiller Crusades ended and the Accords were signed. We’re not built to last.

We’re just born to die.

“After each resurrection, it gets worse.” She turns away to stare out of the window. “For days, I’m… not here. Like I’m floating above myself, watching some stranger wear my skin. Nothing feels real. Not the palace, not my art. Not even when I—” She stops and bites her lip. “Not even when I let the guards into my bed. Nothing makes me feel alive anymore.”

I study my sister’s profile, wondering when her face became a stranger’s. How did I miss it?

Everyone calls her the ice princess. They think it’s because she’s cold and untouchable, but they don’t understand that it’s armor meant to freeze out everything that hurts. I’ve watched her perfect the art of burying pain beneath duty for so long that I started to believe the lie myself. But now? She’s shattering right in front of me.

“So we delay it,” I tell her, taking her hand. “I’ll cause a scene tonight. Show everyone my mark. It’ll buy you some time while they’re all distancing themselves from the disgraced Anchor.”

Her brow furrows. “If you do that, the other kings and queens might—”

“What will they do that’s worse than what’s coming?” I give a harsh laugh. “I’m dead, anyway. Might as well make it count.”

“Don’t say that.” Her fingers squeeze mine. “You’re not dead.”

Yes, I am. But I swallow the words back.

Other rulers get off easy with blood offerings—the same fingerprick as every other citizen. But we Devaliants give pieces of our souls, and what has it earned us? Earned me? An appointment with the business end of an Enforcer’s blade and my life snuffed out at the whim of a god. I have nothing left to lose except my sister.

“When I give the signal, follow my lead,” I tell her.

*   *   *

I take my place beside Markus at the garden’s altar.

The drums take up a rhythm, each sonorous beat reverberating through my chest. The weight of hundreds of stares settles on me as the wedding guests crane their necks for a better view of the spectacle.

Theodora places a steadying hand at my elbow and leans in close. To everyone watching, it would seem like she’s comforting a nervous bride. “Almost time. Ready?”

I nod curtly, meeting Markus’ stare.

He’s handsome enough, I suppose. Blond, blue-eyed, athletic, with the typical arrogance of a man with money and status. When his proprietary gaze slides over me, it resembles someone evaluating an acquisition. He paid for me—virginity intact. I’m sure he’s imagining how I’ll look splayed beneath him, spilling my blood on his cock.

Funny how much this feels like another anchoring ritual. Same incense, same blood, different altar. Servants move through the throng in diaphanous scarlet veils, bearing trays of tiny cordials, candied rose petals, and dishes of pomegranate seeds. All styled in homage to the tithe I’ll make tonight in the marriage bed.

At some unseen signal, the crowd ripples, silences, and parts. My uncle emerges from the palace in a gem-encrusted greatcoat that’s ostentatious, bordering on vulgar, but Idris has never been a man burdened by an overabundance of taste. His golden hair is a mess. He’s swaying enough to tell me he’s already several glasses deep in his cups.

Idris barely glances at me as he takes his place to perform the ceremony. His eyes say what his lips won’t: Play your part. Smile nicely for the guests.

He faces the audience. “Friends, honored guests. We’re gathered here this evening to celebrate the marriage of my niece, Her Royal Highness Bryony Devaliant, Princess of the Blood, to Lord Markus von Reding, Captain of the Thirteenth Legion.”

Everyone erupts into applause, peppered with more ribald cheers from some drunker lords. Someone bellows for Markus to “break her in proper-like” amid hoots and guffaws from his companions.

I grit my teeth so hard I swear I hear my molars crack.

Idris turns to my groom. “If you would join hands with your bride?”

Markus’ fingers close around my own and squeeze too hard. I fight down the panic.

“Bryony,” my uncle says. “Repeat after me…”

His words fade with the rushing of my pulse in my ears. I’m expected to recite all the practiced words—the lies—by heart. The vows written by someone else’s hand, spat out by rote.

They’re all watching me now. Waiting. Expecting me to be a good girl and stand here meek and compliant while they give me away to a man who’ll use me however he sees fit. And why shouldn’t they? I’ve spent twenty-one years doing everything I was supposed to, letting them hold me down on altars and kill me. Never fought or questioned anything. I just took it.

Not anymore.

I catch Theodora’s gaze. My sister gives me a small, almost imperceptible nod. I nod back—our agreed signal to light the match—and pull my hand from Markus’ grasp.

Inhale. Exhale. Brace for impact.

“Actually,” I announce, “I have something I need to say.”

Idris’ head whips toward me. “Bryony. Now is not the—”

“I had my vows all memorized.” I raise my voice to be heard over the growing swell of confused mutters. “All about gratitude and honor and how eager I am to fulfill my duty.”

I sweep my gaze over the crowd. Their expressions crack a little more with each passing second, lips thinning and eyes narrowing, whispers rising. Good. Let them talk.

“But that would have been a lie,” I continue. “How many of you would be so happy to cheer for this marriage if you knew what I am?”

“Bryony.” Idris’ fingers close hard around my arm. “That’s enough.”

I wrench free of his grip, yanking off my gold cuff—my last flimsy shield ripped away. I hold up my wrist. Hundreds of eyes stare at the brand seared into my flesh, its lines stark and unflinching in the garden’s light, glowing like a beacon. As if it’s calling an Enforcer right to me.

“The truth is, there’s no honor here,” I say into the silence. “Only a princess marked for death.”

No one moves. The collective intake of breath seems to suck all the air from the garden—and then the shouting begins. Chairs scrape against the flagstones as guests surge to their feet. Demands for answers mingle with prayers and frenzied accusations, while others turn to their neighbors in frantic whispers. I see Lord Dunne’s face go ashen, while Lady Moretti clutches her daughter to her chest, backing away. The word “oathbreaker” ripples through the garden.

“She’s marked!”

“The emperor allowed this?”

“… doomed us all…”

Markus recoils from me so violently, you’d think I’d drawn a blade on him. “You—You let me touch you. You’re…”

He spits on the ground between us.

I almost laugh. Five minutes ago, he planned to do much more than touch me, but so much for marital devotion.

Idris’ grip returns, fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises. “You think this is funny?” He jerks me forward, then rounds on Theodora. “And you—I know your fingerprints are all over this disaster. We’ll discuss your involvement thoroughly.”

He drags me down from the altar. I don’t fight as he hauls me across the garden into the palace. What’s left to save? The mark on my wrist has done what I wanted—destroyed any chance of this marriage happening.

I’ve burned it all down.

Idris flings open the door to my bedchamber and shoves me inside. “I’ll clean up your mess. Tomorrow, we’ll visit the temple. They’ll help me decide what to do with you.” His lip curls. “And fuck you very much, Bryony.”

The door slams shut behind him.

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8

BRYONY

THE BLADE AGAINST my throat jolts me awake.

As I struggle to make sense of the intrusion, lips graze my ear. Then a whisper: “Time for that memorable death, Devaliant.”

It’s been two years since I last heard that voice, but I’d recognize it anywhere.

I open my eyes to find the Wolf staring at me. His irises glow, shifting from gold to bronze to copper, with the barest hint of blue that resembles the center of a flame. Those beautiful golden wings fan behind him as he leans in, dark hair falling across his forehead.

“Wolf,” I say softly in greeting.

A part of me is… resigned, almost. If there’s one lesson every Devaliant understands, it’s that we die badly. We always do. Choosing my death while I’m sane enough to appreciate it is why I made that deal with him in the first place.

“Devaliant,” he says. He bites his lower lip and releases it slowly in a cruel, mocking grin. “I heard you’ve been a bad girl.”

He’s enjoying my unease. Savoring his damn dagger being one twitch away from splitting me open.

“I wish I’d been worse,” I tell him. “I think you know I haven’t earned this.”

“Alexios doesn’t care what you think you’ve earned. And frankly, neither do I.”

Right. Since when have gods ever concerned themselves with fairness?

He pushes the blade forward slightly, not breaking the skin, but closer. Letting me feel it.

“You seem eager,” I say, holding back a flinch. “Should I be honored?”

“Honored. Flattered. Maybe even terrified, if you’ve any sense at all.” His grin widens as he looks me over, murmuring to himself, “Now, how should we pass the time before I kill you?”

I imagine how I must appear to him. Sleep-mussed and vulnerable, my hair tangled against the sheets. My nightgown has slipped off one shoulder, baring a long stretch of skin. I’d wager there’s no lovelier canvas for an artist of death.

“I’m not in the mood to pass the time with you,” I say coldly.

He makes a dismissive noise, as if my opinion doesn’t rank on his list of considerations. Then his attention falls to my throat, and his expression hardens. A gasp leaves me as his fingertips trace over—

My scar, I realize. He’s noticed my scar.

“Someone tried to steal your death from me.” His voice is deeper now, a lash of heated power scorching the air.

I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised he’s angry. He did tell me he was eager to put another Devaliant in the Void for good, and the man who gave me my scar nearly succeeded before the Wolf got the chance.

“A year ago,” I say, pushing down the memory. “Clearly, he failed. I want to—”

I inhale sharply as he bends his head to nose at the curve of my neck. To… scent me? Unnerve me more? I’m suddenly enveloped by the aroma of soap, citrus, and evergreen. Him.

“I want to remind you about our terms,” I finish breathlessly.

“Uninterrupted eye contact as you die.” His breath is warm against my skin.

Naturally, he’d remember his own insane demand first.

“That was your condition, Wolf. Not mine.”

“Then refresh my memory.” His lips graze my scar, and I get the sense that he’s playing with me. Batting me around between his paws before he rips me open. “Pretend I’m distractible.”

“No decapitation. No flaying. No disembowelment.” He grunts when I sink my nails into his arm. I tip my chin up, pressing into the blade’s bite. If I’m going to die tonight, I won’t do it screaming. I have some dignity. “You promised you’d pretend to treat me like an equal.”

“Seems a shame to limit me.” He trails the knife lower, scratching over my collarbone, raising goosebumps. “Maybe I’d like to make you a masterpiece.”

His masterpiece. Of course, a soulless monster like the Wolf sees brutality as an art.

“Why?” I ask him bitterly. “Because I’m an Anchor, or because I’m the only human who’s ever decided to waste precious breath negotiating with you?”

“Because I’ve waited three hundred years to have another Devaliant impaled on my knife, and some clumsy asshole”—he taps my scar—“tried to take you from me. I’m going to savor you.”

I clench my jaw. “No.”

He arches a brow. Oh, he’s enjoying this. Because I’m prey who bites back, even if it’s an exercise in futility. I know it. He knows it. The Wolf lowers the dagger, tracing the swell of my breast through the thin silk, as if he’s testing me. Seeing what I’ll do.

I don’t even twitch.

“What do you want then, Devaliant? For me to kiss you before I end you?” Then his eyes flick up to mine as he whispers, “Hard or soft?”

I seize his wrist. “I’d rather die with your blood on my hands.”

For a beat, I think he’ll slash me open after all. But then he smiles slowly, pulling away to stand. He shakes out his wings with a rasp of feathers. “Then get up,” he orders, sheathing his blade.

“What?”

“I won’t ask twice.”

I get out of bed, watching him reach for the fastenings of his breastplate. He unbuckles the clasps with deft fingers and drops it to the floor with a muted clank. My breath catches as he strips off the undershirt fastened between his gold wings, baring a torso of taut muscle and gleaming skin. There isn’t anything soft about this god. His body is as much a weapon as his dagger.

My mouth goes dry. “What are you doing?”

“Playing with my food before eating it,” he says with a smirk.

Everything in me freezes. His promise to give me a good death wasn’t a pact made in blood. No contract, no divine obligations. If he wanted, he could make this as slow and painful as possible.

“So I’m a mouse to your cat?”

“Mouse? No.” The Wolf wraps his hand around my throat. Not squeezing, but a warning that he could. “Mice are smart enough not to dictate terms to cats. They know better.”

My pulse flutters against his grip. “What am I, then?”

“The daughter of an arrogant house who should be grateful I’m humoring her instead of slitting her throat and calling it a night.”

He reaches behind his back, drawing a smaller dagger from a hidden sheath between his shoulder blades. Power thrums through the metal—there’s a god’s magic embedded in that knife.

“Turpori craftsmanship,” he says, watching me. “The only metal that can make an Eternal bleed.” He seizes my hand, places the hilt in my palm, and curls my fingers around it. “I meant what I said before. You and I aren’t equals. I’m a god, and you’re just a doomed girl living on time I let you borrow. But since you didn’t earn my execution, I’ll give you your dying wish. Take this blade and carve yourself a death so memorable, I’ll carry it for eternity.”

I blink. “Is this a trick?”

He scowls at me. “I never trick when it comes to spilling blood. It’s the only thing I hold sacred.”

It has to be a trap—a cruel game. But when I search his face, I find no trace of deceit. Only a dark sort of anticipation. “Why? Why let me do this?”

“I’m bored. And you’re interesting. So congratulations, you get to be tonight’s diversion. I’m giving you a real chance to deserve your death—no tricks. No traps. Just you, me, and this knife.” His lips brush my ear as he whispers, “Wherever you want to put it, Devaliant. I’m all yours.”

“Wherever?”

“That’s what I said. So take it or get on with dying. Your choice.”

My hand shakes as I study the blade. A maelstrom of emotions rises in me—a lifetime’s worth of smothered fury clamoring for release. “What if I’m tired of being a god’s toy?”

His indulgent mood vanishes in an instant. “Oh, poor baby,” he sneers. “What a shit hand you’ve been dealt, huh? The princess cutting herself open every other week like a good little sacrifice. Letting all that helpless anger fester.”

Images strobe in my mind. The Oracles pin me down. The altar is cold against my back. The knife settles against my chest, and the Head Oracle gives a sharp command—no empathy or regret.

Stay still, Princess. Stop squirming.

My fingers tighten on the dagger’s hilt.

“This execution is the one thing you think you can control,” the Wolf mocks, jarring me from the memory. “Your last-ditch attempt to salvage some paltry scrap of dignity before the end. Because it kills you, doesn’t it? Knowing that no matter how earnestly you tithed or bravely you negotiated, you’ll just be another carcass rotting at my feet.”

I didn’t know it was possible to hate anyone this much. Some self-destructive impulse wants me to goad him. To see how far I can push.

“Maybe I should bury this blade in your throat and watch you die choking on it,” I say, baring my teeth.

“Points for ambition, but I’m not a demigod. It takes more than a Turpori dagger to kill an Eternal.” He gives a little laugh. “But I’ll let you in on a secret. A bit of wisdom from a god who’s seen more killing than most: we’re all just walking corpses in different stages of decay, waiting for the end. The only difference is how much of the world we take with us when we finally lie down. So accept what I’m giving you. It’s more than a Devaliant deserves.”

The air thickens. Something feral scorches through my veins, snarling, Hurt him. Hurt him like they’ve hurt you.

He must see it—that dark emotion building inside me, all my anger and repressed violence ready to spill out between us. His next words shudder through me, smoky and intimate. “Where do you want me? Where do you want to sink in your claws and teeth and tear?”

Before I can think better of it, I’m shoving him. He smirks as the backs of his knees hit the bed, and then the Wolf settles on my rumpled sheets like he belongs there.

Like he owns this space. Owns me.

This close, I can’t help but study the ring of molten gold limning his irises, the way his lashes cut stark shadows over his cheekbones. His skin has the luster of crushed diamonds.

I hate him. I hate him so much for the beauty that speaks to some base, primitive part of my hindbrain that looks at the monster and thinks, yes, please, instead of running.

I step between his parted thighs, reaching out until my fingers hover over his wing. I toy with the idea of seeing what sounds he might make if I tugged until those gold feathers came away bloody. “Everywhere is fair game? Even—”

His hand shoots out, and he seizes my wrist, giving me a stern look. “Let me clarify. No one touches a god’s wings. Not even pretty little sacrifices.”

“So it’s a universal law? Not a human restriction?”

His grip tightens. “Inviolable. For everyone.” Then he releases his hold and reclines on his elbows—an ancient god awaiting worship. “Well? Put that dagger to good use.”

I bring the knife up and lay the edge against his shoulder.

“Make me bleed for you, vicious girl,” he says.

And that? That’s my undoing. The last thread of my control snapping.

I slash the blade down in a shallow cut that’s more blood than pain. His breath hisses through his teeth, and his hands fist at his sides, but he doesn’t move. The sight of crimson welling against that glittering skin makes something fierce and hungry unfurl behind my ribs. Is this what power feels like? This dizzying, swooping sensation? This dark and covetous thing?

“That’s it.” His head tips back. “Let me feel it. Let me choke on your rage.”

A part of me screams to stop. This is wrong. This is madness. But that part is drowned out by the rush of my pulse in my ears, the savage joy clawing up my throat.

With a snarl, I lunge and straddle his hips, opening a matching line across his chest. He grunts at the impact. His hands close around my thighs, gripping me as I carve my anguish into him. My helpless fury at every injustice ever done to me in the name of sacrifice.

It’s power and depravity. Sacrilege. This body is a temple, and I am defiling it with greedy hands. Violating him. Claiming him. Marking him as mine. A profane consummation in steel instead of skin, a black mass spoken in the language of shared brutality. The hilt grows slippery in my grip, and my breathing goes ragged, but I don’t stop. I can’t.

My teeth ache with the need to bite. To rend and tear and mark in a way no immortal flesh can heal. To take all that monstrous grace and beauty and make it a ruin, because with every slash and visceral jolt of the blade sinking in, everything inside me quiets. The memories and the smothered screams. The swallowed grief and violence over all the times everyone told me that princesses can’t say no, can’t be angry, can’t fight back. We just lie down and take it.

“More,” he says. “Harder.”

I’ve spent so long hiding this hunger. This need to hit something, to hurt something. Images flash. The altar. The knife. The Void. Waking up to the numb reality of a life that isn’t really living. I’m sick of being the thing that breaks—a woman who climbs up onto a slab of rock and dutifully, prettily dies every two weeks.

And it’s like he sees it. Sees down into the rotting bedrock of me, the parts that the altar blade keeps chipping at with each death. The Wolf’s burning gaze never looks away. It devours me, memorizing my snarls and quick, uneven breaths. He watches me as if this is rapture, revelation. As if he wants to crawl into the wildness of me and revel in my unmaking. The veneer of Devaliant royalty stripped to this animal wearing her skin.

I shove the knife into his side. It sinks through flesh and muscle until it scrapes bone. He groans but holds still, gripping my thighs hard enough to bruise. Letting me take and take and take. And I’m so ravenous. Like I could eat the fucking world and crave more.

He must sense it, the flat dissatisfaction twisting my mouth. The grief. He reaches up to cup my face in his palms, smoothing his thumbs over my cheeks to catch the tears that spill down. I sob soundlessly as I watch his wounds knit back together. His skin glows with all that Eternal power as every mark and hurt I made disappears. Because even this brutal mastery—this fleeting dominion over a god—is as empty as an altar rite.

I’m still just a sacrifice. Still chained to the altar.

And he’s still the one who gets to kill me.

“It’s not enough, is it?” he asks, low and too-knowing. “All that fury, and you’ll go to your grave still starving.”

This is a joke to him. An obligation. He gets to fly away and wash his hands of me, go back to his life in Scillari, and celebrate a promise kept and a Devaliant killed. He’ll never understand what it’s like to be powerless.

“You want to know what I loathe about you?” I say. “You’re untouchable in a way I’ll never be. Powerful. Immortal.” I lean down until our noses brush. “And you squander it all on meaningless shit like this. It’s pathetic.”

A muscle tics in his jaw. Then he leans in and brushes his lips over mine. It’s not a kiss—not really. Just a meeting of mouths, cold and perfunctory. Like he’s mocking me.

It makes me want to bite.

“Show me,” he murmurs against my mouth. “Show me how much you hate me. Let me taste it.”

Fuck you.

With a growl, I surge against him and sink my teeth into his bottom lip until I taste copper. We’re panting into each other, sharing breath and blood. His hands twist in my hair.

His expression is almost tender as he yanks the dagger out of his side and angles the point over my thundering heart. “Let me see all that loathing in your face as you die. Any final words? I’ll be sure to carve them on your tomb.”

I lean into the blade, giving him the eye contact he bargained for. “Here lies Bryony Devaliant,” I sneer. “The stupid woman who still gave one last tithe against the Eternal’s orders when she should have spat in his face.”

He blinks. “You did what?”

“Sank the knife into my own chest on the temple grounds. Figured I’d try to reverse his decision. Clearly, it didn’t work.”

And then, to my shock, the Wolf laughs. “That’s either the bravest or stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” He returns his dagger to its sheath between his wings. “But I can’t help but appreciate a mortal finding a loophole to a god’s loophole. Guess I can’t fault you, considering. But now you’re not an oathbreaker.”

That’s not comforting. The Wolf of Asteria is not someone who just walks away from an execution on a technicality.

“I don’t like that this amuses you.”

“You shouldn’t. Means I get to play with you longer. You’ve done an admirable job holding my interest tonight.” His hands clamp around my waist, hauling me closer. His magic lashes against my skin in a wave of heat. “Here’s what you’re going to do. I want you to go scrub off the blood. When you come out, these sheets will be clean, and this room will be empty. You’ll put your head on your pillow and remember this as nothing more than a hazy dream until the next time I visit to fuck with you.”

Next time. Is he insane?

The command vibrates through my skull, surging into my limbs and compelling me to obey. I strain against the thrall of his power, the inexorable pull of it. “But if I’m not an oathbreaker,” I pant, “then I’m Unclaimed. Fair game to kill right now without consequences. Are you seriously risking your king’s wrath and granting me a stay of execution because you’re bored?”

The Wolf stares at me for a long moment, his brow creased in confusion. As if he doesn’t understand why he’s making this decision, either. “I don’t always like listening to the king when he yanks my leash a little too hard. Keeps him on his toes. Reminds him who I am.” His gaze drops to my lips. “And I want another taste of your rage. Next time, if you’re very lucky, maybe I’ll let you sample mine.”

Then his magic crashes over me in a tidal wave of light.

And the world goes black.

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