“Hold her still. We need confirmation,” he orders as he draws nearer, and several sets of hands press down on me all at once.
Dread crawls up my throat, and in a blink, I’m no longer in a metal building surrounded by the imposing Horde. I’m back in a cell, being held down by tainted sorcai as Wistan slinks closer, his greedy gaze roaming over my body as he decides where to draw blood from this time.
I scream as I fight the hands pinning me in place. I thrash and snarl, bucking against the bastards trying to keep me down. Somehow my feet are free, and I take full advantage, wildly kicking out and reveling in the pained gasp I elicit when I make contact with someone. Bedlam explodes all around me as more bodies pour into the cell, and I battle against their bruising efforts to incapacitate me.
“What in the bloody realms is going on?” a booming voice demands, the question and the command in it momentarily breaching my terror.
The sound of people running peppers my fear, clouding it with confusion.
“We need confirmation that she’s the dragoness from the healing center. I went to get it and she’s gone feral,” an imperious male defends.
“No shit, Lorn. Did you not hear what the healers said? What the fuck did you think happened to her when she was with the blood brokers? Get away from her with that knife. Anyone touching her has two seconds to stop or lose their hands,” another male roars.
I’m suddenly back in the metal building on the ground, a chair tipped on its side next to me. My heart hammers so hard it feels like a steady hum in my chest instead of individual staccato beats. A ringing sounds in my head, and heat pervades my every pore, both from fury and shame.
Large imposing bodies scurry away, but all I can focus on is the white-haired scion and the knife still clutched tightly in his palm. My heart rages against my sternum, and my lungs are so full of panic there’s no room for air. He retreats, but my trepidation doesn’t go with him.
A towering body steps in front of me, blocking my view of the knife and its possessor. The face of an avenging angel looks down at me, his stunning blue eyes bleeding wary caution as they take me in. Black flames crawl up his throat, the tips getting lost in the dusting of dark hair across his jaw and cheeks.
Aeson Noctis.
The second-born scion raises his hands, palms out, and crouches down like he’s trying hard not to spook me. I hate the whimper that escapes as I skitter back, disoriented and unnerved by what just happened. It felt so real. I know it wasn’t. I know I’m not in the cell anymore, not physically at least, but how long will it take before my mind leaves it, before it stops pulling me back?
“It’s okay. No one is going to hurt you. You’re safe,” Aeson attempts to soothe, careful not to touch me.
I don’t need to find the Thrasher in the surrounding drakes to know everything he just said is pure bullshit, but the falsehoods do help to chase away my alarm and draw me fully back to where we are and what’s actually happening.
“Safe?” I challenge shakily, biting back the surging embarrassment that’s starting to inundate the last dregs of my fear. Anger helps to dam my mounting mortification, and I scowl up at the dark hulking scion in front of me. “Is a Syphon truly safe anywhere?” I seethe, and I feel everyone around me collectively go still.
“What did you just say?” Aeson whispers, the look on his face vacillating between disbelief and shock, so I hammer it home for him.
“I’m Ever Tenebrae, daughter of the slaughtered King Merik Tenebrae, and the last surviving Syphon of my massacred line. Trust me, Spare, I’m not safe anywhere, least of all with you.”
Chapter 8
IN A LIFETIME, THERE ARE an endless number of rights and wrongs that can stack up for or against you. The tallies on either side can haunt your memories, bolster your greatest accomplishments, or leave you standing in an uncomfortable puddle of ambivalence.
I don’t have a track record for getting things wrong.
Mistakes, all too often, are a death sentence, either for me or for those I care about. The luxury to make poor choices isn’t one I’ve had very often. But as I stare at the two scions, one a winter blizzard, the other a dark thunderstorm, I wonder if the winds have changed for me and wrong is now the only way I know how to step.
The Noctis brothers share a look, one loaded with silent communication, but I’m ill-equipped to decipher what they’re wordlessly tossing back and forth.
It can’t be good.
Then again, it can’t be that bad either, because they’re not setting me on fire or tearing me limb from limb. I was so fucking certain they would too, and yet here I am, skipping past wrong street, licking a wrong popsicle in the middle of what-the-fuck-is-going-on lane. What’s worse is I can’t seem to escape this fucking place no matter what I do.
I was wrong about the ambush that got me and Ren taken. Wrong about whether or not I would survive my swan dive off a cliff. Wrong about my ability to run from The Horde. And now I’m wrong about these assholes killing me the second they discovered what I am.
A wave of restless energy ripples through the drakes surrounding me. Discernable impressions of shock, dismay, and suspicion are evident on some of their faces. Others have their reactions locked down tight. It’s an impressive display of discipline. One I can’t say I particularly care for at the moment because it makes too many of them hard to read, and that makes their actions hard to anticipate.
Corrugated metal walls, chilly cement floor, and flickering lights are the perfect backdrop for my spiraling thoughts. The drakes around me look stoic, but I can feel their unease. It’s as though they’re waiting for me to rear up, use my affinity to steal all of their power, and then slaughter them where they stand.
If I could, I would, but they don’t need to know, thanks to the curse, that I’ve never revealed my dragon, I don’t have an affinity, and can’t do shit to any of them.
“A Syphon?” Aeson Noctis asks, his bright blue eyes breaking from his brother’s and returning to me.
“The one and only,” I bait somewhat flatly.
