I think it’s been longer than five days since she plummeted into Zykanth’s open maw when she fell from the cliff, and she’s only gotten worse.
Ifailedher.
She whimpers, reaching skyward again when the tapping somehow grows louder.
More abrupt.
“Rhordyn …”
Zykanth growls so loud the water lapping at our treasured shore ripples, sound waves ricocheting off the curved ceiling. A few coins even tinkle down the slope of our coin mound.
I brush a tangle of hair back from her face. “No, Treasure. It’s Kai—”
“I need him,” she rasps, setting her hand on my face as she tries to look at me. “Ineed—”
Her body spasms with another coughing, spluttering heave, and my upper lip trembles.
I steal a glance at the ceiling. In the direction of that shellhead with the stick. But then I train my attention back on Orlaith and see a look in those unseeing eyes that mimics a pain I feel in my chest at the absence of my vicious one …
Zykanth stops his slithering stir, tapping at Orlaith’s edges.‘Treasured onewantangry man? Treasured one must have sick heart like sick skin.’
“I don’t think that’s it,” I whisper aloud as her eyes roll backward, her body going limp.
Lifeless.
If it weren’t for the quiet tap of her heart, I’d almost believe …
Swallowing thickly, I gently lower her to the pelt, planting a kiss on her blazing forehead. Hating myself for not being able to save her.
Zyke lets out another long lament.
My heart grows heavy, wetness glazing my cheeks as I look to the fucking ceiling again, knowing exactly where I would want to be if I were drawing my last breath …
With Vicious.
‘Bad idea. Zykanth not agree to bad idea.’
‘We’ll let him have her,’ I tell Zyke, my tone as firm as my resolve.
Let her die with him.
Let him see what he’s done. How much he failed her, too.
Zykanth stills, listens …
‘Once she’s gone, you can kill him.’
The slate sea rages beneath the howling wind and battering rain, the midday sun hidden behind a churn of cyclonic clouds as I strike the metal pole against the stones over, and over, and over.
Her seed is a sputtering star, roots tugging from where it’s anchored to my ribs and the pit of my soul—a violent upheaval threatening with each agonizing pull. I picture an ancient tree being ripped from the soil in devastating increments, my claws punched deep into the precious cargo. A failing anchor.
She’s dying.
I strike the stones, again, again,again—roaring to the wind and the fucking rain.
Roaring to the sky and the sea.
Myself.
