Blaéz’s jaw tightened, recalling his utter fear after Maloch had handed the hellish weapon to his second in command to detain him while Maloch took off after that demoness who had hauled Darci away.
“The weapon’s no more,” Aethan told Michael, retying his damp blue hair. “I incinerated it, along with all the fuckers Maloch brought.”
“He came after me,” Blaéz admitted. “He wanted either me or my soul back. I skewered him. Bastard won’t be a problem.” Hooking his thumbs in his pants pockets, Blaéz told them the rest. “His sister wanted vengeance. Seems he’s been messing around with family members. He caged his younger sibling with me.” A shrug. “I killed him—I killed many then—so I can’t recall it.”
Blaéz filled them in about Nora, and how she’d fostered a friendship with Darci after tracing his soul to her, but did nothing, except for setting up the confrontation between Maloch and him. “She had it all planned, Maloch’s eventual downfall. She sliced his carotid before I could end him, said something about me being unable to kill him due to a spell he used to tie us.”
Michael nodded. “About Maloch, found out something. Did you know who he was?”
Blaéz shrugged. “No…he could have told me. I don’t remember, didn’t care. I just wanted the fucker dead.”
“Understandable,” Michael agreed. “It’s surprising he didn’t gloat that fact to you.”
“Who?” Týr demanded.
“A spawn of Leviathan, the Sin of Envy,” Michael said.
“Of course,” Blaéz muttered. “It all makes sense now. Why I was tugged down to that level of Hell. Own me, a coup for him. And probably why he was able to bring that damn weapon here, too.”
Michael’s harsh expression eased a little. “Darci? She’s okay?”
At the thought of how little time she had left, Blaéz’s chest tightened. “She gave me back my soul—what do you think?”
No one said a word. The floor appeared far more interesting.
The rustling shower had stopped. Blaéz glanced over his shoulder into the bedroom and straightened from the doorjamb. Týr rose, joining Aethan, both of their gazes filling with empathy.
God, he so hated being faced withthatshit. How the hell did pity help, except for hammering another nail into his already shattering life, reminding him just how fast time flew.
Aethan stopped him. “You need anything, call.”
“Yeah.” Týr nodded in agreement, and they headed down the corridor, the sounds of their booted footfalls fading. Blaéz turned to find Michael still there. “It’s over, Blaéz.”
“Is it? Sure, the fucker is no more, but what about Darci? How do I stop her from dying in the next few days?”
When Michael said nothing, Blaéz stalked into his room and shut the door quietly behind him.
The violence inside him grew. He wanted to make Maloch pay—to hurt, so damn bad.
Not because of his own tortured past, but for touching his mate, for shortening her life span even more. But the bastard was dead, and nothing could heal the pain inside him, one he had no idea how to fix, or shut off at the thought of his mate dying.
Chapter 31
“We should stay in today.”
Darci looked up at the sound of Blaéz’s voice. She pushed away the brunch plate that held a half eaten chicken sandwich and a slice of chocolate cake she hadn’t touched.
Late morning sunlight poured in through the library windows and highlighted Blaéz’s unreadable features in clear detail as he watched her from across the desk, his own meal barely touched.
She wanted to reassure him that everything would be all right, but that would be a lie. So she did the hardest thing she ever had to, and smiled playfully. “Okay. But tomorrow I’ll have a new bucket-list now that we’ve completed the others.”
A tic worked his jaw. She felt his frustration. “Don’t, Blaéz,” she said softly. Reaching across, she covered his hands resting on the desk. “I loved every minute of our time together.”
The last three days had been amazing.
He’d taken her to the beach just past the cliffs on the north side of the island. She’d spent several idyllic hours with him, walking on the white sands and wading the shallow waters.
The following day he’d shown her more of the parkland gardens of the estate then stopped at the gazebo on the lake where someone—Hedori probably—had laid out lunch on the low wicker table for them. She’d fallen asleep afterwards. There was no escaping that change in her. The tiredness.
