“When I went out with Eve and Thane, some pervert cornered me, and I may have used my magic to persuade him to confess, chop his dick off, then kill himself.”
I shoot Ezra a wide whoops grin, but when I meet his gaze, there’s no humor. There’s just lust, need, and the glint of something dark and dangerous.
Ezra freezes, then groans, as he presses a hand to his cock through the sheets.
“Ježíši Kriste, Aurora.” He exhales sharply, dragging his teeth over his bottom lip. His fingers tighten in the fabric, barely holding himself back.
“That’s so hot it makes my balls ache.”
I bite back a grin. I’ve never seen him this undone. And I fucking love it.
“I’ll control myself. You look exhausted.” He breathes in slowly, reining himself in. “As for the blood, it’s just a hunch, but I think the blood of evil humans will taste good to you. The rest won’t.”
Another pause. His eyes narrow, something shifting behind him.
“That might be tied to the thread magic Iain mentioned. You’re not just tasting blood. You’re tasting what they are.”
He leans in, eyes gleaming. “Much like me.”
Ezra’s mouth finds mine and kisses me so deeply my head spins and my pulse roars in my ears.
“Have you decided if you want to see yourself, Aurora? It looks like your hellfire is fading, and I’m afraid you might lose your chance.”
Ezra reaches toward the nightstand and grabs the mirror.
“I’m ready.”
I’m so not ready.
With my face buried in Ezra’s chest, I catch sight of another tattoo—a red-winged blackbird perched among tall cattails, its tiny eyes sharp and still.
He taps my shoulder, and I turn my head to look in the mirror he holds in front of us.
My reflection makes my heart briefly beat out of rhythm and my mouth dry.
I’m … beautiful.
I look like a goddamn reckoning.
Still me. Just … finally unleashed.
I was so afraid this would change me.
And except for the screaming cunt currently squatting in my consciousness, and our slight misunderstanding, I’m still totally and utterly me.
After I passed out from my earlier … exertions, I came face to face with the thing in my head.
She looks like me. But wrong. Not monstrous, just … off.
It feels like someone tried to print me out, but the machine jammed halfway through. Her edges are smeared, and her colors are too sharp in some places and bleeding in others.
Her form flickers, constantly shifting, never quite settling. She’s still deciding who she wants to be, or maybe trying to remind me who I really am.
“I am the Empress of Ashes,” she told me, her voice a chorus of echoes, “and I have waited long enough.”
Pretty pompous words from what’s basically a cosmic brain tick with delusions of grandeur.
“You are not ready,” she spat at me. “You don’t even know what you are.”
