The tattoos writhed beneath my flesh, glowing, burning, twisting like serpents with every shiver of her body. The shadows feasted, ecstatic, urging me deeper—take more.
And gods, I wanted to.
Her lips moved against mine with fire, fierce and bruising, her nails raking into my shoulders. She clung to me like she couldn’t decide whether to push me away or let me ruin her. That torment only inflamed me further, dragging me closer to the edge of something vast and destructive.
I broke the kiss only to trail my mouth along her jaw, down the fragile line of her throat. Her pulse thundered beneath my lips, frantic, wild. I grazed her skin with my teeth, not to draw pain, only to feel her tremble, and her cry broke through the chamber. Her body shook, pressing tighter into me, feeding me her warmth, her fear, her need.
“Lazarus…” she gasped, her voice breaking, but instead of shoving me away, her hands tangled in my hair, pulling me closer, tethering me to her.
I growled against her skin, the sound raw and inhuman, shadows hissing in unison with me. My teeth scraped the hollow of her throat before I claimed her mouth again—harder, deeper—like I could consume her whole, drag every breath, every drop of her soul into me.
When I finally tore away, panting, her taste clung to my tongue—salt, fire, tears, and something intoxicatingly hers. My body shook with it, my skin blazing as the marks writhed beneath, and the shadows inside me purred in dark satisfaction.
Amara staggered back a step, her lips swollen, her cheeks flushed, her eyes wide and brimming with terror as they flicked to the black coils burning under my skin. She looked at me as if she couldn’t tell if the man she loved was still here or if I was already gone.
“Tell me—where is Severen?”
My voice came low, vibrating through the room, a sound that wasn’t entirely mine.
Amara’s breath faltered. Her gaze slipped away, as though meeting my eyes might tear her apart. When she finally spoke, her voice was sharp, bitter—choked with disgust.
“In his throne room,” she said. “Torturing prisoners. Slaves. Sacrifices.”
She shook her head, the motion small. “It’s worse than anything you’ve seen.”
I turned—and found Salvatore watching me.
He stood motionless, his tome clutched tight to his chest, his knuckles bone-white. His face was carved in stone, but his eyes betrayed him—burning, jealous, storm-bright. He had seen the kiss. The way Amara trembled against me. He had felt the shadows surge when our lips met, the spark of power that had flared between us.
And he hated me for it.
The whispers in my skull hissed their delight.
“He envies you. He despises you. He will never taste what you have.”
Their voices crept like smoke through my mind. I ignored them, though their truth stung bitterly on my tongue.
“Then this is where we split,” I said, my words rough, breaking like stone under strain. “Amara and I will stay here—in his den—and find the Noctyss flower. Meanwhile, you go through the prison. Free the captives. Get them out before he drains them again.”
Salvatore’s jaw tightened. His hands gripped the tome until the veins on his arms flared black. His silence was a storm barely held in check. His eyes lingered on me a heartbeat too long—smoldering, edged with something darker than hatred.
At last, he nodded—once. Stiff. Controlled.
“When you’re done,” I said, “meet me at the doors to his throne room. That’s where it ends. That’s where we destroy him. Together.”
He said nothing. He only turned, his shoulders rigid, silence echoing louder than any curse. His footsteps bled into the dark, devoured by the shadows.
When I looked back at Amara, she was still watching me. Her eyes—wide, wary, filled with the ghosts of what I had become—reflected the glow of the coils beneath my skin.
I wanted to reach for her. To prove I was still the man she’d once trusted, the man who had shared his bread with her in the dark. But there was no time for softness.
There was only one purpose.
Vengeance.
“We’re looking for a flower,” I told her, forcing my voice to stay even though the shadows inside me writhed like fire beneath my skin. “Its petals are black, streaked with silver. They shimmer—like it’s alive. It’s held under a dome glass.”
Amara didn’t hesitate. Her breath was unsteady, but her eyes met mine. “I know, Lazarus,” she said quickly. “I’ve seen it before. I know exactly what we’re looking for.”
