“What?” she snapped, folding her arms defensively. “He’s a fucking siren. What do you expect?”
Luca shook his head. “Maybe it’s worse for women. Or maybe males aren’t as susceptible.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Vincenzo cut in.
“We need to get out of here,” I said, my voice hardening with determination. “We get Vivian back. And we end that bastard once and for all.”
The room fell into a tense silence. The water lapped at my knees, cold and unrelenting, but I barely felt it.
My mind was on Vivian.
On the pain in her eyes.
On the vow I made to bring her back.
No matter what it took.
48
VIVIAN
Aroar of voices, and the cacophony of cheers and jeers reverberated off stone walls as Izo led me into a large arena. I trailed behind Izo, the soft swish of the thin, iridescent fabric against my skin a cruel reminder of how exposed I was. My face burned with humiliation, but the compulsion twisted that, too, smothering my shame beneath a twisted sense of duty to Izo. Part of me wanted to drape something over my body, while the other part was happy to oblige Izo and allow him to enjoy the sight of my body.
I despised the comfort I drew from Izo’s presence, the way his compulsion wrapped around my mind like a soothing lullaby, promising safety, control, and purpose. Beneath the layers of his magic, I loathed him. And I loathed myself for how much harder that hatred was to hold onto.
The arena was massive, carved into the rock of the Ashen Faction’s territory. It was both beautiful and terrifying, the jagged cliffs rising high above us on all sides. Rows of seats stretched endlessly upward, packed with sirens and other denizens. Luminescent tattoos pulsed faintly in the dim light, creating a living, breathing constellation of bodies.
At the center of the arena stood a dais. A throne carved from a single massive shell sat atop it. Izo ascended it like a king, every movement purposeful and dripping with arrogance.
I lingered near the base, my heartbeat thunderous in my ears. My steps faltered for a moment when I noticed someone standing beside the dais—a familiar figure, tall and cloaked in dark blue, his expression unreadable.
Altair.
Altair, who had stood as witness at my wedding to Raffaele. Altair, who had sworn himself as the Shadow’s ally. What the fuck was he doing here?
Izo glanced back at me, amusement blazing in his eyes. He gestured for me to follow, and I obeyed, unable to stop myself.
Once I reached his side, Izo raised his hands, commanding absolute silence. The crowd’s roar diminished into a tense, expectant murmur. With a flick of his wrist, a massive, iridescent blue sphere appeared above the arena and encased the space.
“This,” he said, his voice carrying effortlessly, amplified by magic, “is to ensure none of you interfere. No objects, no spells, no heroics. Today, you are spectators to long-awaited justice.”
My stomach churned as the crowd cheered.
Izo turned to me, his hand brushing my arm. The touch was light, but it sent an electric jolt through me, the compulsion flaring to life and quelling my nausea with an almost dizzying comfort.
“Stand here, my dear,” he said, gesturing to a spot beside his throne. His voice was gentle, but it carried the weight of a command.
I moved without hesitation, my body betraying me once again.
They came into view, one by one: Raffaele, Vincenzo, Dorian, Luca, and Camilla. I stifled a gasp.
They were blindfolded, and their wrists bound with shimmering bands of water. Their heads were bowed, and guards shoved them toward the center of the arena.
My heart twisted painfully at the sight of Raffaele. His movements were slow, as if every step cost him an enormous effort. I could see the tension in his shoulders, the strain in the way he held himself upright despite his weakened state.
But he was alive.
I clung to that small comfort, though it did little to quiet the chaos inside me.
