Page 9

Little by little the dark coils of mists retreated. Through the fading remnants of his crueler soul Roark stepped through. The burn of gold in his eyes collided with the blaze of copper for a fleeting moment.

His jaw was taut, his fists curled. He spared one glance down to where I was wrapped in his cousin’s embrace, then looked to the Dark Watcher.

Fillip backpedaled, the knife still in his hold. “What did you expect? This was bound to happen sooner or later. I’m merely doing every damn kingdom a favor by getting on with it.”

Roark removed a knife from inside his boot.

“Don’t!” I tried to go to him, but he was already out of reach.

“Stop this!” Elisabet pushed between Dark Watchers near the ledge, but her son never even glanced her way.

Roark reached Fillip as the man raised his own knife, but he was no match for the Sentry of Stonegate, the Death Bringer. The moment Fillip went to strike, Roark buried his knife in the side of the warrior’s throat. No hesitation. No remorse.

I clapped a hand over my mouth and watched with a bit of horror as Roark twisted the blade and thrust it deeper into the man’s flesh.

Fillip’s eyes flew open. Blood fountained over his kohl-painted lips. His palms padded across Roark’s chest as though seeking a ballast in death.

Roark’s teeth were bared when he gave another fierce thrust of the blade until the tip of the point jutted out the opposite side of the man’s neck.

In the next moment, Roark tore the weapon from Fillip’s flesh, then stood by as the warrior crumpled at his feet.

Dead.

Roark wiped the blade of the knife clean on Fillip’s unmoving body, then spun on his clan, malice written in every line of his face. His hands gestured frantically.

Emi, her fingers still entangled with mine, cleared her throat. “Your prince demands that you look at this fallen soul.”

Roark’s hand speak was brisk and rage filled; it was loud and suffocating. Voice or not, the same as he’d done as Sentry, he commanded terror-lined silence.

The man was a godsdamned force.

Emi barreled on, more boldness in her own tone. “His vow—not a threat—is simple: touch the melder, and you meet the gods. No questions.”

Elisabet’s brilliant eyes darkened, but I did not think her frustration was entirely pointed at me. More like she was frustrated with her son and would have words with him later.

A Dark Watcher with a fox fur draped over his head stepped forward. “Why don’t you tell our lost prince—”

“I do not need to tell him anything, Ofan,” Emi snapped. “He speaks with his hands but has ears as he always did.”

Ofan glared at Roark. “You are not king. Yet. Do not blame your exile on your clan. You would’ve rejoined us, lived among us, if only you’d done your duty and killed that.” The warrior pointed at me, hand trembling. “Yet you slaughter your own folk to keep it breathing. After all that was lost, you chose the melder. King Vishon would be ashamed to call you a son.”

If I’d not been so near to Roark, I would have missed his flinch at the vicious retort. Still, he did not step away; he did not look ashamed.

Roark grinned. If I am a disappointment already, why not seal it by making my loyalty known?

With slow, prowling steps, Roark returned to Fillip’s corpse and soaked his palm in the fountain of blood still leaking from the man’s neck.

“No. That is enough,” Elisabet said through her teeth.

Her son ignored her. Blood on his fingers, his hands, Roark washed the whole of his face in Fillip’s gore. Great gashes of sticky red over his frightening smile.

A few gasps and grumbles filtered through the Dark Watch. They were Draven, the wild, bloodthirsty folk. I did not understand why a bit of blood affected them so.

I tucked myself closer to Emi’s side and watched Roark drag blood down his lips, through his hair, and across his chest, staining his tunic. It was a glimpse of the darker pieces of his heart bleeding through, the depravity that was meant to make up Skul Drek, and I could not look away.

Truth be told, if I had questions about whether I could love Roark Ashwood despite the lies and omitted truths, this moment proved the sharper, crueler pieces of him stirred my soul as much as the gentle.

I did not know what sort of fiend that made me.