Текст книги "Eyes of devious burgundy"

Автор книги: Lacey Lehotzky

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Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 43 страниц)

***

Atarnished crown rested upon the father’s brow as he surveyed his son’s training. It did not compare to the shine and size of the one resting atop his brother, the Kral’s head, but it still made him feel important.

“Rokath is becoming quite the fighter,” he mused, hoping to catch his brother’s attention.

“Indeed,” the Kral replied, hands bracing on the balustrade that overlooked the training ring. His brother had ridden to Fured from the capital of the Demon Realm a few days prior. Even still, soldiers swept into deep bows and offered them salutes as they passed by. The two paid them no mind.

“Xannirin as well,” the father commented, tracking the movements of the future Kral. The youngling was smart, witty, and charming, whereas his offspring was broody, solemn, and serious. Their temperaments were vastly different, and yet the two acted more like brothers than the father and the Kral ever did.

“Come, brother, let me show you exactly what he can do.”

Without another word, they descended to the training ring. The young males stopped what they were doing and acknowledged their approach with closed-fisted salutes.

“Rokath,” the father barked, and his son’s burgundy eyes cut right to him. Nothing else moved on his form, and for that, the father was pleased. “Step forward and greet your uncle.”

Rokath felt the intensity of his father, his uncle, and his cousin’s stares as he stepped forward and knelt before the Kral. He waited in that bent, subservient position, for what felt like minutes before being instructed to rise. Hands behind his back, chin tilted up, he waited for his next instruction.

Rokath’s father whistled at a few passing males and beckoned them forward. “You will fight my son,” he told them, and all three hesitantly shifted around.

With a waver in his voice, one said, “Of course, Your Highnesses.”

“Good, suit up,” he told them. The three hurried away to don armor and weapons from the nearby wall of materials, and Rokath waited for their return. He knew better than to ask questions, protest, or move in any way without a formal request or dismissal first.

He also knew better than to take it easy on the three. His father expected nothing less than perfection, and Rokath was as close to the center of that target as anyone could be.

The yard had cleared to make room for the three-on-one fight, though newcomers clung to the periphery, waiting with bated breath.

The Kral dipped his chin, releasing Rokath from his stoic position, as the three males approached.

Stepping back, Rokath squared up to them and drew his sword. A bland, almost bored expression smoothed his face as he assessed his opponents. A cardinal-eyed male lunged first, and Rokath disarmed him in three swift strikes. The male raised his hands in surrender, but Rokath knew that the only way to end this was in death, even if the male did not. Just as the second leaped into action, Rokath speared the first through the middle, then used his momentum backward to slam an elbow into the hand of his attacker. Spinning, he sliced across the male’s thigh, sending a spray of blood and a scream ripping through the air.

His cold expression did not change.

The second male limped around, raising his sword again as if he was going to defend himself against the burgundy-eyed youngling. Then, the third joined the fray, lunging with a glaive toward Rokath’s torso. He sidestepped, then deflected the long weapon away.

Shadows swirled from Rokath’s fingers, coating his arms and his blade as he backed toward the dead male. Dropping to one knee, he kept his attention firmly on them as he planted his closed fist against the ground. Behind Rokath, the deceased soldier rose, the sword still clasped in his hand scraping against the stone as he dragged upright. No life remained in his eyes, and his comrades visibly blanched at the sight of their fallen friend stumbling toward them.

A muscle feathered in Rokath’s jaw as he poured more magic into holding the dead male upright and using him as a secondary weapon to even his numbers. With his father watching, he didn’t dare make a mistake, for the consequences, especially in front of his uncle, would leave him hurting for weeks. And he couldn’t afford that level of pain, not when his one hundred and sixtieth birthday was days away and the promise of sneaking away from the military center and out into the city for some drink was all he had been thinking about for a month.

His two opponents stuck again, one at their former friend, the other at Rokath. One clang after another echoed around the yard, no one daring to breathe as they watched the fight unfold. A bead of sweat formed on Rokath’s brow as he pressed his advantage, dodging the glaive and stepping past its sharp blade, using his shadows to snap the weapon in two. Its wielder sucked in a sharp breath, ducking as Rokath swung at him. But Rokath had been training since he could hold a weapon in his hand and predicted the move.

Executing a perfect counter, he flicked his blade around and swung up instead, carving a line from navel to neck on the male. With an anguished cry, he fell backward. “Please,” the male managed to get out, one hand stretched between them as if that would hold off the youngling stalking his way. But Rokath knew no mercy, so he gave no mercy. With one swift kick, he flattened the male, and then he plunged the sharp tip of his sword into the male’s heart.

Wasting no time, he backstepped off of him and called forth more magic, raising him to stand again. The only living opponent unleashed a scream as his friends attacked him together. Rokath hung back, manipulating the bodies, until those sounds died along with their owner.

Then, there was silence.

Until a single, slow clapper filled the yard with the sound of his approval. “Well done, Rokath,” the Kral said, though a hint of mocking threaded his tone. Rokath spun and dropped to one knee before his uncle. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his cousin, Xannirin, watching the exchange with apprehension.

The two loved living away from Uzhhorod, out of sight of their fathers, though Rokath’s appeared far more frequently than Xannirin’s. Both were familiar with their family’s famous temper, though Rokath possessed it in spades, while Xannirin did not. Their fathers, on the other hand, were notorious, just like their brother.

“He could have done better,” the father groused, snapping at his son. Rokath rose, heat flaring in his chest and tightening the muscles in his neck and jaw. But he did not look at his father and his uncle, and instead kept his eyes downcast as he waited for the judgment that would surely fall.

“I shall take him to my quarters and discipline him at once. That is the only way he learns,” the father said as if his son was not standing mere feet from him.

Rokath closed his eyes, attempting to rein in his fury and block out any expression flitting across his cousin’s face. He didn’t need Xannirin’s pity. He was strong enough to bear the brunt of his father’s abuse for both of them.

He was strong enough to kill him.

“Very well. I must return to Uzhhorod. Xannirin,” he barked at his son.

“Yes, father?” he gritted out, trying to smooth his tone so as not to give away his fear for his cousin.

“Join me as the groom saddles my horse. I have a lesson I want to impart before I go,” he said, a haughtiness to his tone that spoke of his self-importance. Xannirin acquiesced immediately, while Rokath dragged himself toward his father. The two cousins shot each other long looks that spoke of their mutual support and understanding and of all the plans they dreamed together on long nights after suffering their fathers’ abuse.

Rokath tore his attention forward again, bracing for what he knew would be a rough beating, if not worse, for some slight he did not understand. He’d executed every movement perfectly, wielded his magic with two opponents, and not suffered a scratch. But if his father wanted something, or rather someone, to abuse, he didn’t need much of an excuse to carry it out.

The door to his father’s chamber burst open, banging against the stone wall behind it, and Rokath stepped obediently into the room before closing the barrier behind him. The click had barely sounded before his father pounced, grabbing his son by the shirt collar and dragging him forward.

But Rokath halted, letting the fabric rip from his body and display the first ink he’d etched into his skin the prior month. Despite not being of age yet, he’d grown stronger, more muscular, more lethal, in the months his father had been gone. To his father, Rokath appeared as a feral youngling with too much bravado and not enough sense. So he tossed the shirt aside and glared at his son before launching forward again.

A laugh emanated from Rokath, and he caught the flying fist of his father. All the life had drained from his eyes, until there was nothing but a ruthless, cold fury that licked through every ounce of blood in his body. The smile that spread across his face as he twisted his father’s arm was pure wickedness.

His father yelled from the pain, and Rokath cranked harder, forcing his father’s arm up his back as he yanked him to his chest. Then, in a low, gravely voice, he spoke in his father’s ear, “This is the last time you will ever lay a hand on me.”

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24

The Halálhívó and I glared at each other, neither of us saying anything. Cold cruelty was etched into his face, along with countless black tattoos. Yet a deadly fury ignited in his burgundy eyes. The intensity that radiated off him had only increased since he’d roughly dragged me into his personal tent. He was everything I’d expected from the descriptions given of him by Priestess Anara and the other Vezető.

Izgath…

The thought of the male I’d been slowly opening up to during our time together speared me with an icy dagger of grief. He died because of me, because I didn’t just accept my fate the moment I killed Vagach.

Everyone I loved died.

The circle tattooed between my shoulderblades burned with as much hatred as I did. My fucking mate mark. How could the Fates make him my mate? How could they bind our tapestries together with no recourse to unravel it? What kind of sick, twisted joke had they determined to play on me?

Maybe the Reaper had cursed me after all.

I’d dreamed about having a mate that would empower me, give me autonomy, free me from the invisible shackles placed upon females in the Demon Realm. Instead, they gave me one of the males responsible for it all.

During my marriage to Vagach, my fury had barely been restrained; caging it now would be utterly impossible.

“What is your name?” he finally growled, uncrossing his arms and shoving off the post where he’d been leaning. At least he had the decency to offer me clothing to cover myself, though my back still stung with the lashes from the whips. I hoped I was staining his tunic with my blood.

I scoffed, shoving my hair behind my ears and lifting my chin. “Why should I tell you? It’s clear that you don’t want me.”

His eyes flashed in a way that made my body go entirely still. “Little imposter, you have no idea what I want.”

“You’re the Halálhívó. You want to tie me to this bed, impregnate me, then ride off into battle and slaughter every Angel you come across. You’re not that complicated,” I shot back. I shuffled myself around on his bed so my knees were tucked beneath me, ready to launch myself at him should the need arise. Then, I crossed my arms in a move of self preservation.

He raised a dark brow, crinkling the snake’s fang that stretched out onto his forehead. Then, his gravelly voice appeared in my mind. “I can force it out of your pretty little head, if that is the game you want to play.”

“I still don’t understand why you even want to know,” I responded in kind, narrowing my eyes on him.

His expression remained as frigid and flat as his personality. “If I am going to have a weakness, I at least want to know its name.”

“It? I’m an it now?” I exclaimed, throwing my hands in the air. “I guess I shouldn’t expect to be seen as a person by the likes of you. The Fates-chosen hero, along with the fucking Kral.”

“Don’t you dare talk about him like that,” he snapped, taking a powerful step forward.

All fear bled from me as rage rose to protect me instead. I bared my teeth. “Sounds like you have more than one weakness, Halálhívó.”

He closed the remaining distance between us, shoulders heaving and neck muscles bulging beneath the tattoos that decorated them. He spit out his next words like one of the deadly cobras spitting its venom. “Make no mistake, little imposter. I am not a hero. I am undoubtedly a villain. And if I don’t scare you now, I will make it a point to do so.”

Down our newfound bond, the truth behind those words slammed into me, along with unfettered hatred. I blasted an equal wave in his direction. He was the reason my family was dead, Izgath was dead. He was the reason I had to submit to Vagach and why all I’d been told my entire life was that my only use, my only worth, came from my womb. Every ounce of rage I’d suppressed trying to be the demure female, trying to be Vagach, trying to be anything but me, ignited in my veins, white hot and ready to burn everything in its path.

And in that moment, the Halálhívó was in my line of fire.

“You’re right. You are the villain, and as much as you hate me, I hate you ten times over. Maybe I’ll take that nice sharp dagger strapped to your thigh and drive it into my heart just to spite you,” I snarled, glaring up at him. Even on my knees on the bed, he still towered over me, broader by three and emanating enough fury to burn right along with me.

The growl that rumbled from his chest made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. “And that, right there, is why I hate you. While I could withstand the pain of any injury you inflict upon yourself, your death would cripple me for weeks, at the very least. And I cannot have that.”

With lighting-fast speed, his hand whipped out and closed around my throat. With the barest bit of strength, he lifted me from the bed, cutting off my air as he did so. His face drifted closer to mine, lip curling back from his teeth with a snarl. The sharp points of his canines caught my attention, severe enough that I knew he could draw blood with a single sharp bite. “The Kral could be captured and tortured in front of me for all I care. The war can continue without him. That is why you are my weakness. My only weakness. Because you are a liability.” He threw me backward, and I gasped as air flooded my lungs again. “If it wouldn’t debilitate me to do so, I’d kill you myself.”

Tears pricked at my eyes as I glared at the Halálhívó, my fucking mate. I must have done something outlandish in a past life for the Weaver and the Reaper to offer this one to me, shuffling from one abusive male to another.

“Not if I kill you first,” I threatened, shoving myself upright again. I wasn’t going to stay down and let him overpower me. I’d learned how to fight over these past weeks, and I refused to be a victim at the hands of another male.

He sneered at me, then yanked a dagger from his thigh. Flipping it around, he offered it to me, hilt first. “Do it.”

I looked at him, then at the blade.

“Come on, little imposter. Are you afraid? Or maybe,” he grasped my wrist and yanked me forward, “you need to be shown how to do it.” Squeezing my forearm, he forced my fist to open, then shoved the blade into it. Curling his hand around my own, he closed my fingers, then used his leverage to drag me closer. He only stopped when the tip of the blade dug into his muscled chest. “All you have to do is push.”

A bud of ruby bloomed on his heavily inked skin. Yet he didn’t flinch, didn’t look down. Didn’t even register the bite of pain that nipped down our bond.

My hands trembled.

“You’re insane,” I spit. The place where our flesh touched was fire, and the thick, invisible noose tying us together burned with desire. Heat pooled between my bare thighs, and I hated myself for my body’s reaction.

This is so fucked up.

“I’m not the one who promised to kill you, then balked at the opportunity to do so,” he growled, throwing me and the knife away. It bounced out of my hand and disappeared among the blankets on the bed. Sweeping my hair out of my face, my attention snagged on the thick outline in his tight pants.

Smirking, I returned to my previous position, like an animal that wouldn’t quit fighting until its opponent delivered the killing blow. It was my turn to take control of the situation. Without warning, I closed my hand over his hardness and squeezed. “I know what it’s like to kill a male. How do you think I got here in the first place? Vagach was no saint. He deserved to be buried in the ground for what he did to me.”

If a fire had burned between us before, an inferno whorled into a frenzy after those words. The Halálhívó grasped my wrist, yanking it away from his body and twisting my arm so I was at his mercy again. “And what exactly did he do to you?”

With the utter death in his burgundy eyes, I suspected that this was the true, lethal killer that everyone so adored. So I told him, figuring he’d relish every cruel deed done to me by my dead husband. They appeared to be one and the same, after all, though maybe the Halálhívó was worse. I’d barely been mated to him for half an hour. He had plenty of time to unleash the evil within.

“He beat me for failing to bear his children. For not being ready for our coupling when he returned home. For any number of infractions, real or imagined, just because he was drunk. And oh how he liked to drink.” I tipped my head back and released a manic laugh. “I wanted to die every day. It would have been more peaceful than the life I lived. Maybe in my next life, I’ll find a love worth living for. You certainly aren’t it.”

A muscle ticked in his stubble-coated jaw, and he released my wrist, taking three steps away. “If he weren’t already dead, I’d slaughter him myself. In fact, I might find his body and call him so I can do it all over again.” The growl that accompanied his words made me want to tremble, the depth of violence in them undeniable. Yet, his declaration surprised me.

Why would he want to protect me rather than hurt me?

To cover the flicker of confusion, I scoffed, crossing my arms over my chest. “Why? You said so yourself that you’re not a hero.”

“You’re right,” he said slowly, letting each word drop like a stone plopped into a glassy lake.

This time, I allowed the shiver to tumble down my spine.

“I still don’t understand why you care.” I sat back on my heels, waiting for a response. The tension had cooled between us, and my earlier ferocity didn’t feel right after the Halálhívó made an effort to put space between us.

He glanced down at his chest, then to mine, where my magic flared to life, including this newfound connection to Keleti’s most dangerous male. “Mate bond. The thought of someone hurting you already drives me insane, despite my overwhelming desire to shove my cock in your mouth to shut you the fuck up.”

“I would bite it off,” I snapped, an ember of my earlier fire returning.

“I have no doubt that you would try,” he replied, his tone threaded with something bitter. “But a good leader knows when to accept a situation rather than fight against it, and right now, little imposter, that is what I am trying to do.” He stepped forward again, leaning over to brace his fists on the bed. Then he lifted his head, burgundy eyes locking onto mine. “So, are you going to tell me your name?”

I studied him for a moment, from the tattoos of three crows on his scalp to the rose-covered vines and skulls sweeping down his arms. Ink curled around his hands, forming his honorific. Then, I returned to his face, noting the slight curve to his nose, the heavy set of his brow bone, the chunk missing from one of his ears. But those eyes, a shade as unique as my own, held something there, a riotous fire that spoke to me on a level that surpassed all reason.

So, finally, I surrendered my name.

“Assyria.”

“Assyria,” he repeated, my name rolling over his gravelly voice. “I am Rokath.”

I’d only ever heard him referred to as the Halálhívó—from Vagach, Priestess Anara, the other soldiers.

Did anyone actually know his name?

“Most don’t,” Rokath growled, clearly having read my mind through our newfound connection. “And I prefer to keep it that way.” More than a hint of threat hung in the air, and I understood what he meant: I wasn’t to speak it in front of others.

Yet he’d given me something so intimate, so personal, so sacred. A tempest of emotion swirled inside me.

“So what are you going to do with me, Rokath?” I asked, sighing and dropping my arms to my sides.

Those heavy brows dipped for a moment as he mulled over his next words. Then, he blew out a breath equally as long as my own. “I will allow you to sleep here for the night. The hour is too late to trek to Gyor Palace.”

“That didn’t answer my question,” I stated, resisting the urge to twine my fingers in these blankets and scrunch.

He straightened, carrying that powerful presence with him. “I know.” From the floor, he grabbed a tunic and shrugged it on, buttoning it up with practiced precision. The tattoos I’d merely glimpsed disappeared along with the torso sculpted from the very stones of the Skala Mountains. “A guard will be stationed outside to ensure you are protected and do not leave. No one will come in or out of this tent except for me.”

“And if they do?” I asked, cocking my head to the side.

“If they do, you know how to kill them,” he shrugged, and even the fabric couldn’t hide the way the movement sent ripples across his thick muscles. “If they do, then I will know through our bond that you are in danger, and I will kill him myself if you do not accomplish the task.”

“And if I try to leave?” I said, lifting my chin.

He looked pointedly at my attire. “I would hope you aren’t stupid enough to try wearing that. But if you are,” he was on top of me in a heartbeat, pinning me beneath him on the bed. My breath hitched as he dropped his lips to my ear. “I will always be able to find you, mate. So run, if you want. I do so love a good chase.”

And with that, he shoved off the bed, sweeping from the tent without so much as a backward glance.

Heart pounding, I lay there, trying to come to terms with everything that happened in the span of a day—not even that. Mere hours. They continued to drag on as my mind whirled faster than a windstorm on the plains south of Stryi.

Soon, the candles on the bedside table bled down their stems, pooling on the polished wood beneath them. Like the melting wax, tears burned my eyes and overflowed, dripping on the blanket beneath my cheek as my emotions slammed into me and stole my breath.

The force of my sobs shifted me, and something sharp dug into my shoulder. Shuffling around, I yanked the discarded dagger free. The bronze blade glinted in the light, though the harsh edges blurred through my watery eyes.

In the span of a dozen heartbeats, my entire life flashed before my eyes. All the pain, all the suffering, all the loss. The weapon grew heavy in my palm. I’d never been more tempted than in that moment to plunge it into my heart and end it all.

Yet glimmers of joy slipped through, almost as if the Weaver had entered my mind and shaken out the tapestry of my life, only highlighting the greatest moments. More tears leaked from me as my sister’s bright, joyous face flashed by.

She wouldn’t want this for me.

So I flung the dagger, not caring that it smacked into something on the other side of this tent. Then, I curled in on myself and wept for everyone and everything I had lost.

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