What if her spiel about our lives being bound is all one great lie?
What if—
A hand grips the ties at my neck and yanks. I track the brown fingers to the white sleeve of the jacket Dante wears beneath the gold armor, then farther up, to the rigid jaw and frigid eyes.
“Don’t touch me,” I snarl.
Dante flings me a glare. “Then fucking react, moya.”
I grind my molars.
Meriam holds her fingers up and waits for me to willingly take the single step that’ll, once again, put me within her reach. “I know you fear me, Fallon, but you need to trust me.”
I snort.
“This’ll be my last warning,strega. You speak once more in Shabbin, and I will cut off your tongue.”
Merda.I go as quiet as a temple mouse, praying that Dante didn’t catch the sound I made. The one that screams:The Serpent-charmer is fluent in Shabbin! I rub at my collarbone, and glance at Dante, who’s wholly focused on Meriam.
My relief at his obliviousness wanes when I roll my eyes as far to the side as they can go and catch the general hiking up one of his tawny eyebrows. Cheeks flaring, I whip my attention back to Meriam.
“Forgive me.” She holds her palm aloft, and only then do I notice that she, too, sports the horrid tattoo. “I get mixed up between Lucin and Shabbin. Both tongues sound the same inside my head.” She fans out her raised fingers as though to stretch them.
The blazing Lucin crest at her back ricochets across their tips that gleam as though coated in oil. I assume she’s spread her blood across all five of her fingers, but a squint reveals the shiny patches are blisters. Probably the result of years of pricking. Is that what awaits me? New calluses? Here I was, so very thrilled to have shed my old ones.
“I was explaining to Fallon why I need access to her heart.”
I peer around me this time, waiting for Dante’s reaction, waiting to ascertain the language in which she spoke.
“Take off your blouse, moya.” He nods to the fabric crusted in dirt and maroon droplets.
I bare my teeth, loathing the new title he’s forced upon me almost as much as I loathe him.
When I don’t attempt to pull it off my head, he heaves out his black sword, snags the keyhole neckline, and draws his blade down, ripping open my shirt, and gashing the brassiere beneath. Thankfully, it doesn’t tear off, but that does little to dull the new wave of wrath spiking my pulse.
“What the underworld is wrong with you?” I hiss, fisting the frayed edges of my shirt to keep it from revealing all.
Meriam crooks her finger toward me.
When I don’t go to her, Justus hefts me so that my feet no longer touch the ground and moves my body nearer to his wife who gently tugs on the eaves of my shredded blouse.
“The spell must be spoken in Shabbin. No one should interrupt me once I begin chanting, or they will taint the magic.” Meriam looks at Dante as she says this, clearly meaning him.
He works his jaw from side to side, and it clicks like an anchor chain. “Fine. Proceed. Justus, try to keep track of all she says.”
“Fallon, I know you despise me but the blood-bind was necessary. I swear I will explain all, but first let me give you the gift I’ve kept from you for twenty-two years.”
I glower at her.
“You will need your magic to break out of here.”
My reluctance to trust her is so potent it jostles the rhythm of my heart.
“Don’t you want to see your mate again?”
I want that more than I want my magic.
“Trust me, my darling.”
