I push up. The ground tilts under me like I’m drunk. My vision swims; stomach lurches.
This fucking dress—the one that made me feel barely enough—hangs off me in rags. Sparkly bits litter the dirt around me, catching the light.
You were never my mate.
Witch.
His words echo in my skull, each syllable a fresh wound. The thing about wounds, though—they’re the main source of a pain that I have no problem turning into a fucking war.
For a moment, I believed him. Fuckingbelievedhim when he said I was his mate, his queen, his everything. Opened myself up like an idiot, let him see the soft parts I didn’t even know I carried. He dug that shit up and used it to fucking bury me.
I hate Legend Deveraux.
Laughter breaks through my spiraling thoughts. For a minute, I forget all about the horned beast. Too obsessed with my hatred.
I bare my teeth, straightening my shoulders as if it’s gonna do shit up against this giant. “Cute mask,” I spit. “Shame it won’t stop me from gutting you.”
He tilts his head, slow, deliberate, as if bored.
I fucking bore him?
It’s fine, every newcomer exiled to this place has to learn theirs at some point. Even demons. How long was I gone for anyway? And this motherfucker thinks he can walk in here and claim what’s mine?
No. Absolutely fucking not. Not after I just endured the royal assholes of Rathe.
I move toward him with purpose, blade ready, smirk widening. Every muscle screams in protest. My ribs burn with each breath, probably cracked from where Legend threw me like a discarded toy. The memory hits me harder than the pain—his face, cold and empty, calling menothing.
Calling meexile.
Like it was poison on his tongue.
I hesitate.
“Cute dress.” His voice is low, yet in a tone I’ve never heard. Almost as though it echoes itself enough to vibrate through the air. “Would look better on the floor.” Those red eyes remain locked on mine.
He steps forward until he’s close enough that the curve of his horns nearly graze my hair. Close enough that his heat, or maybe the ocean’s, clings to my skin.
My knives don’t waver in my grip—muscles screaming to drive steel straight through his ribs. But my fingers lock up.
That broken laugh scrapes out of him again. Like he’s the only one who gets the punchline of some cruel joke.
I shove the blade against his throat. Just a little pressure.
It just takes one quick jerk.
His head tilts back, baring his neck. Like he’s daring me. Like hewantsit.
My jaw clenches so hard my teeth ache.
“You think I won’t?” My lip curls. “I wouldn’t question me today if I were you. I’ve had about enough of men to last an entire lifetime.”
He leans into the blade, bending it toward his own neck. “Do it,” he murmurs. Not a dare. An invitation. “Spill me open. See if I bleed for you.”
So, he’s poetic.
His massive hand clamps around my jaw, rough enough to bruise, and yanks my face toward his. A wet, searing tongue drags across my skin, sending a jolt through me I refuse to name. His breath burns against my ear as he murmurs, low and dark, “Follow me.”
Another pulse of pain through my chest, and I reach for it, as if I can pull it out myself. Fuck it. I can’t be bothered fighting this asshole right now. Not with possibly four cracked ribs, a sprained ankle, a possible broken finger, and a damaged ego.
