His eyes open a bit more, doubt swirling in their depths. He grins. “Gods, no.”
“Then let me prove myself,” I say, eyes lifting to the spot Morgan and his traitors lay in wait. Draven’s gaze follows curiously, and I add more loudly, “Feel my desires for yourself.” I can’t drop my shields, but he said earlier he could sense what I was feeling. Hoping to hells that’s true, I let every ounce of fear blaze through me like a tidal wave through a flood bank. Too much to be withheld.
His hands stop roving, gripping my waist harder, eyes darting between mine as though he doesn’t understand what he’s reading off me. I lean forward and whisper in his ear, “Tie yourself to the headboard.” Keeping my hands bracketed around his own, my gaze flicks to where Morgan and his cowards hide again. I feel him trying to get past my mental wards, but I won’t let him in, I can’t.
A steely suspicion lingers in the dark indigo of his eyes, but we’re out of time. This needs to happen before they realize.
I summon the Magician and press my magic into the curtain ties behind the headboard, changing them subtly, just the color of the rope in case Morgan can sense my power being used. I need him to think I’m the one about to bind Draven to this headboard and so I wrap them around Draven’s wrists, however loosely. A second later I’m shifting my body to cover Draven’s tattoo flashing, his cards on his hip glowing faintly as his magicblazes across the bonds, binding his hands. I stay straddled above him, pushing myself back. “That’s a good princeling, let’s make sure these bonds are tight, after all … the devil’s in the details.”
His brow rises, and I hope to hells he understands what I’m implying. My gaze flicks meaningfully toward their hiding spots again but his attention stays locked on to me.
I call over my shoulder, “You can come out now, you cravens.”
They reveal themselves one at a time, slipping out of the illusion soundlessly, wolves moving in on a helpless kill. Draven’s eyes widen, shifting to yellow as he looks from me to them, and I know his trust in me is irrevocably compromised.
I lured him inside, knew they were there the whole time, and said nothing. Guilt gnaws at my bones. I can’t meet the fire burning in his gaze, a red glow forming that I hope to never witness again.
“I’m sorry,” I say, but then one of them forces me off his lap, the heat in me dissipating. I’m shoved roughly against the wall, out of everyone’s way, and they circle him, trapped on that bed.
“He’s secure?” Morgan’s every syllable holds suspicion.
Draven’s eyes lock on to him, turning red, ignoring the rest.
“No one’s going anywhere.” I demand, “You’ll release the others?”
“Yes,” Morgan says, distracted by his catch.
“What are you going to do with Draven?” I growl.
“Quiet her,” Morgan orders.
One of the unnaturally strong Strength Arcana grabs me and puts a hand over my mouth, and I go silent. The tattoo on my inner forearm burns like fire as my trust with Draven draws taut. My shields open a fraction, my eyes closing as I remove a brick from the wall, sending a fist through the concrete to find Draven on the other side.
Even in my mind he seems muted.
They’re leftovers of the uprising, calling themselves the Ascension. They’re using my friends as hostages. They said they’d kill them if I didn’t do this, or if I opened my shields to warn you.I wait for a reaction, for something snarky, or scathing, but he’s silent. Begging, I say,Please, Draven. I’m so fucking sorry.
Fallon lurks nearby, like a monster looking for any crack in the foundation, and her attention shoots up at me. My shields reform as she snarls, “Knock that shit off.”
“Did she warn anyone?” Morgan asks, suddenly tense.
“No, just pathetic groveling.” Fallon crosses her arms, but her powers press around me, viselike, a headache blaring around my temples.
“What do you want?” Draven asks Morgan, distracting them, his voice terribly calm. He never replied to me mind to mind. Maybe he never will again.
“Revenge.” Morgan’s fangs descend. “Though it doesn’t have to be taken on you. It’s your father we want to punish. So, who takes our rage is going to be your choice.”
“I can’t just call him here.” Draven shrugs despite the awkwardness of his tied hands. The snark laced in his tone sparks a flame of hope in the darkness clouding my thoughts. “So, I guess you’ll have to do your worst to me, great avenger.”
Morgan’s eyes slit, his face curled into an animalistic snarl as he spews, “You’re enough revenge for me. You chose me, and unwittingly sealed your fate. Then I saw how you looked at Rune. It made you so easy to get to. You threw me in the Boiler for six weeks, but our people broke me out tonight. Having Ward threaten your guards drew them all away, and now you’re ours.”
Draven’s cloying sarcasm thickens the air. “Do you want to hear me applaud your cleverness? Afraid you’ll have to untie me for that.”
“So much condescension. What else should I expect from someone who’s so elitist, so entitled?” Rage fuels Morgan’s every movement, from his popping veins, to the spittle at the edges of his mouth. “My mother hanged herself when my little sister was Selected to go with the elves. I was left alone to wallow in fucking poverty until the Ten Spires came recruiting. But you gave me purpose when you Selected me, Draven. You stupidly handed me power. The power to kill immortal royalty.”
Something about hearing the worst of my wants flung from another’s mouth leaves me sick. I want the immortal royals to pay, but not Draven. He wants better. He’s one of us.
Morgan holds a knife against Draven’s bare throat, and my heart stops.
