Now that I know of their relation, the similarities between the two brothers are impossible to ignore, despite the eternal youth of Dawson’s face and sun-deep tan of his skin. The sharp curve of his cheekbones is a mirror of Niko’s, and though Dawson’s eyes are a clear, crystal blue, the corners of them tilt slightly upward in the same manner.
He steps smoothly from the archway, his face a terrifying mixture of madness and humor. Like he’d relish nothing more than to laugh wildly as he drains the life from me. The siren’s horrified screams of agony fill my ears, while the gnarled scars on Marina’s back and throat fill my vision. For a moment, I feelnone of my own pain—only theirs. Only Niko’s, as his sacred place was desecrated by a rot that would haunt him the rest of his existence.
I spin back toward the water, determined to end this once and for all. To save Niko from the island’s hold, and then slaughter Dawson where he stands. But something in Dawson’s answering laugh slices straight through my spine. A deranged, twisted echo, not of defeat—but ofdelight.
Acute wariness spikes through me, as I slowly turn back toward him.
“My brother pretends to be above reveling in others’ pain, but there can be no other reason for the way he’s manipulated you, love, aside from the sheer enjoyment of it. Once a Strayed, always a Strayed, I guess. Though evenIcan think of less cruel ways to accomplish my ends than convincing a poor, abandoned woman of my ardent affection.”
Dawson tsks, his mouth spreading into a vicious grin. “Though I suppose it wouldn’t be the first time for Nikolas, now, would it?”
The way he speaks sends dread sluicing down my spine—like everything in the world is hilarious, but none of the humor reaches his eyes.
“He’s made quite a name for himself on the mainland, hasn’t he? The dread pirate captain who guts children with a hook.”
He saunters slowly closer, and it takes everything in me not to cede a step. To keep my gaze steadily on his, a wall of solid steel. To keep his words from penetrating my skin and poisoning my heart.
“But the stories never get it quite right, do they?” He looks at me to finish the thought, and when I simply press my lips into a tight line, Dawson lets out a beleaguered sigh like I’ve ruined his fun. “The stories, Willa…they all paint Niko as a villain, but he’s something far worse—a snivelinghero.”
I readjust my grip on the sword, even as a knot forms in my throat. The hilt is slick in my palm, and I’m not sure when that happened. When my heartbeat ratcheted higher in my chest; when anxiety began filtering through my veins like acid.
“I don’t need to tell you why that’s a far more terrible thing to be.”
He pulls a sword from the scabbard at his hip, letting out a wild guffaw of laughter at my flinch. I follow his movement warily, as he swings the blade around with the haphazard casualty of a teenager tempting danger. Except there is none of the uncertainty of youth in Dawson’s movements. Only lethal efficiency.
“Come now…you can’t really think you’ve found your way to the heart of the island on your own? Thatyou’rethe one who’s decided to tie yourself to it?” Another laugh. Another toss. And then a wry smirk in my direction. “That you’re the one who’s decidedanythingat all. You’re a clever woman, Willa…a part of youknows.”
His sword slices through the air with a distinct whir, as he gazes at me with amusement. And worse—with pity.
“You know my brother, his careful precision…you know he’s crafted every movement, every emotion, everythoughtsince the moment you’ve arrived. All to make sure you were right here, right now.”
“Niko doesn’t even know I’m here,” I reply acerbically, even as the pool of magic rippling behind my heart freezes over like a pond in the winter.
Dawson’s next words are a blow to the ice, miniscule fractures spidering over the mirrorlike surface of my magic.
“Come now, love,” hetskslike I’m the child, though he’s one who looks like a goddamn teenager perpetually frozen in time. “You’ve experienced far too much of humanity to fall for a few simpering words and a good fuck.”
He spins the sword in his hand again, and this time, I leverage a step backward. Only ceding enough to plant my stance firmly. Because though I don’t stand a chance against Dawson in a physical fight,Ihold the power.
And Niko is the one who gifted it to me. Who saw what lay inside me when I was too broken to see it myself. And when I found that magic, he didn’t try to use it for his own gain—he gave me my freedom at the cost of his kingdom.
Dawson may be right about Niko being a hero, but he isn’t the righteous savior of Letum or the divine deliverer from the plague. He’smyhero.Only mine.My liberator, my deliverer—my adytum in a universe of pain.
Dawson’s eyes narrow on the small shift in my stance, the irreverent humor sliding from his face. His expression shifts from one of mischief, to the ringing hollow that exists in all the Strayed. Depraved emptiness glints in his eyes, his handsome face skeletal and haunting in the light.
“Go on then,” he sneers. The sword stops swinging.
I don’t move. “Why are you here if you aren’t going to try and stop me?”
Another ringing laugh, as Dawson prowls closer. “I’ve been alive for a very long time, and I admit, life gets a tad stale after a few centuries.” Closer still, Dawson brings the tip of his blade lightly to my sternum. “What better way to sate the boredom than to enjoy your ruin.”
Dawson tilts his head, his mad eyes searching for a hint of emotion. I only stare at him flatly, well-practiced at giving nothing even as my entire being blazes with rage.
“I want to watch,” he says with a lascivious lick of his lips that sends a wave of nausea barreling up my throat. “Watch as you do exactly as your King commands, his sweet little puppet.”
Dawson’s teeth dig into his bottom lip, and his entire body seems to tremble with malevolent excitement. “Watch as you dowhat I’ve imagined since Niko was a pathetic little boy trailing around after me, begging for attention. What no one else has been able to do since the Everlasting’s murder.”
I go entirely still, even as adrenaline and dread mingle so furiously in the pit of my stomach, I think I’ll be sick with it. Dawson leans in, the tip of his blade digging more firmly into the fabric of my dress. Panic flushes over my face at the implication of his words, and he drinks it in with relish.
