I tear out of the room, my fury a living thing. The wooden doors hit the stone walls with a bone-jarring crack, the sound chasing me into the hall. As they slam shut with a final, violent thud, I stand in the hall, my chest heaving, eyes scanning the shadows for an escape—anywhere that isn’t here.
There—a door to a private lounge.
I throw it open, quickly scanning for any occupants, but it’s thankfully empty, and I slam the door shut behind me.
I pace the room, trying to release the pent-up anger. I can feel my Amplifier Gift buzzing like lightning beneath my skin, and as my fist pounds into a glass cabinet, the whole thing explodes around me, wood and glass splintering into fragments. Then I lash out again: a kick to the sideboard, a vase flies across the room and shatters against the opposite wall, and a chair breaks into hundreds of pieces as I pick it up and hurl it against the door.
It has been ages since I allowed my Gift to affect my strength, but my head is such a riot of jagged thoughts that the release of my power is instinctive and primal.
I take deep breaths, my chest heaving, standing silently amongst the chaos I’ve created. I can feel the rage slowly dripping from my body, the blood running down my fingers, the rhythmic drops as it falls and pools on the floor.
Her face when he touched her.
His hands on her body.
Her face when I told her to ‘shut up’, when it was taking everything I had not to tear him to pieces right there and then.
How could I’ve allowed her to be in that situation after what he had done? WhatIhad allowed him to do?
What is happening to me?
This unwelcome need to protect her, a jealousy that slithers through my veins like a snake I know can bite me. I shouldn’t care; I’ve mastered not caring into an art form. I’ve kept her at a distance with my well-calculated cruelty and disinterest. Encased my heart against her sweet smiles and those damn violet eyes that seem to bore into me, that try to see beyond the masks I wear.
I can’t let him have her. My father is cruel and vicious; he is the epitome of everything rotten and decaying in this kingdom—The Corruption itself made flesh. I have tried so desperately to keep him away from her, to make her small and insignificant to his gaze. I believed if I could make her invisible by denying her, I could protect her.
Lately, my resolve is crumbling to ash, the closer we get to the wedding. It’s so close now—my ability as her husband to keep her safe from him—that I can almost feel it at my fingertips. Yet my heart calls to her, stretches out with longing to finally feel the softness of her body, to feel her hair slide through my fingers, and to taste and feel that first kiss I imagine being like sunlight.
I finally admit to myself what I have known all along:
I have loved her forever; I will love her for eternity.
Chapter Eight
Alaya
Well, that was a disaster!
I presumed things would get easier after agreeing to Prince Kiernan’s request that we pretend civility in public, yet he seems more irritated than ever.
After being dismissed from the dance lesson—my partner being absent and all—I felt an overwhelming need for my happy place. So I’m making my way to the Western Pasture.
As I eagerly anticipate seeing Heller and relaxing for a few hours without any pressures about wedding arrangements, I pass by the Training Grounds. The rasping clash of swords and grunts of exertion drift towards me. Excitement flutters in my chest—perhaps the Thorn Guards are out. I do a quick scan of the area, drop to my belly, and shuffle up the small grass hill, peeking carefully over the apex.
My heart sinks when I notice the Training Grounds are mostly empty. I spot two tall figures clad in dark ebony armour and wearing menacing spiky black helmets, working in one of the close combat rings at the far end. I inch back and rise slightly, stooping to avoid detection as I creep closer. As I do, I notice a third, smaller figure with them. When I drop back to my belly and peek over, I have a much clearer view.
The third figure is Prince Kiernan.
What are they doing?
I watch with rapt attention as the two Thorn Guards circle each other. Within the blink of an eye, one of them moves—much quicker than should be physically possible for something that size. Its black sword glints like starlight as the sun catches the razor-sharp blade, arcing towards its fight mate. The strength behind the lunge is evident even from this distance.
As the other Thorn Guard dodges the sweep, the sword hits a thick wooden post beside the ring with a heavy thud. The post explodes into hundreds of splinters, the Thorn Guard letting out a roar.
I’ve seen the Thorn Guards spar before and witnessed their strength, single-minded aggression, and stoic focus—emotion channelled entirely into the discipline of the fight. This is entirely beyond that. This is the static feel of power in the air, their strength amplified to the point of being a destructive primal force. True annihilation packaged into one shadowed soldier.
I almost rise to intervene when Prince Kiernan motions to the nearest Thorn Guard with a flick of his hand. Its soulless gaze turns its full attention to him.
Is he crazy?
