“Oh, my love,” she crooned, returning to where he knelt. “You always look so beautiful when you bleed for me.”
Xyliria’s fingers, warm with his blood, cupped his jaw. Her lips found his, cruel and demanding. Ashterion didn’t hesitate, he couldn’t afford to. His mouth moved against hers, returning her kiss with a fervour that had been perfected over centuries of survival. His hands came up to cradle her face, his thumbs stroking her cheeks as though she were precious to him.
The taste of her was familiar. Sweet poison that burned his tongue, his throat, his very soul. But he kissed her back with the desperate intensity she expected. His tongue met hers when she demanded entrance, and he tasted copper—his own blood on her lips. She’d always enjoyed that particular cruelty, making him taste his own suffering.
“There’s my good husband,” she murmured against his mouth, her fingers digging into the fresh wounds on his chest. Pain lanced through him, but he didn’t break the kiss, didn’t pull away.
Xyliria’s mouth lingered on his, her teeth scraping his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. She savoured it with a small hum of pleasure before finally pulling away. Her thumb traced the fresh wound on his lip, pressing hard enough to make it sting.
“Rest well, my love,” she whispered, rising gracefully to her feet. “I want you strong enough to scream when Ryleth arrives.”
The rustle of her crimson gown was the only sound as she glided toward the door, leaving him kneeling in a pool of his own blood. She paused at the threshold, casting one last glance over her shoulder, at her handiwork carved into his flesh.
With a pleased smile, she was gone.
Ashterion didn’t move. Not until the echo of her footsteps faded, not until the gilded door clicked shut and silence swallowed the chamber whole.
Then, and only then, did he let his mask crack.
A slow, shaking breath hissed through his teeth. Blood dripped from his lip, mingling with the mess already smeared across his chin. He pressed his forehead to the cold stone beneath him, bile rising thick in his throat.
She wanted the human.
Of course she did. He’d hoped the meeting would buy him time, but naturally it had the opposite outcome.
Ashterion forced himself to move, muscle by splintered muscle. His arms shook violently as he pushed himself upright, every tendon protesting. The blood loss made the edges of his vision darken, but he stayed upright. Hehadto.
With trembling legs, Ashterion pushed himself to his feet, the world tilting dangerously as he rose. Blood slicked the stonebeneath him, making each step treacherous. He needed to heal. Or at least stop the bleeding before Ryleth arrived.
The bath was carved into the floor itself, an obsidian basin fed by steaming water that trickled down from a spout in the shape of a serpent’s mouth. He fumbled for the vials stored in the shelf above.
Healing tonics. Burn salve. A tincture for nerve damage. He usually ignored them. Let the wounds fade on their own. Let the reminders linger in his bones.
But not this time.
Not with Ryleth coming.
His hand trembled as he uncorked the vial. Pale blue liquid. He poured the entire bottle into the bath. Then another. The scent of herbs filled the room. Sharp rosemary, crushed yarrow, something faintly metallic beneath it.
Ashterion gritted his teeth as he eased himself into the water.
It always burned, at first. The tonic sought out every raw edge, every torn seam in his skin, and lit them aflame. He hissed through clenched teeth, digging his nails into the edge of the tub.
Steam curled around him, hiding the worst of it. His blood diluted in the water, curling like ink through the ripples. His breathing slowed.
He let his head fall back against the edge of the tub, eyes closed.
And he thought ofher.
The human. Thatimpossibleblaze that had spilled from her.
Black flames—shadow fire—a magic he hadn’t seen in centuries. It had flickered across the table with such raw, untamed power that for a moment Ashterion had forgotten to breathe.
He’d felt it then. A pull. A resonance. Ancient and familiar power stirring inside him. It called to him. Or perhaps itansweredsomething in him.
He hadn’t told Xyliria that part.
He hadn’t told her that when he’d seen that fire, his shadows had curled toward it instinctively. That the scent of it had stayed in his lungs like smoke, like memory.
