Page 45

For the second—and last—time in my life, I kneel before my former friend, before the male who murdered my sire.

If he thinks this atrocious display of power will break me, will make me heel to him as Drac and Hercule have, he’s wrong.

I steel myself for the first slash of silver. The first crack of the whip is always the worst as it zips through the air, slicing through my flesh in a lick of fire and poison. It burns. Gods, it burns. But not as bright as my rage, not as hot as the spark within me that knows what I must do, what I must become to end Mihal before he can get his murderous hands on my mate, before he can harm my kindred, before he can push the vampire race into a dark abyss there’s no crawling out of.

Mihal grew bored somewhere after the twentieth lashing when my screams became whimpers.

Blood speckles his throne, his polished shoes, the marble floor.

“That’s enough.” He flicks what might be a torn piece of skin from his pants leg and rises from the throne. On his way out of the room, he pauses beside Risna and brushes the back of his hand against her bloodied cheek. “You did beautifully, Risna darling.”

Then he simply strolls out of the throne room with Drac and Hercule in tow.

Risna is on me in a flash. Fresh tears wet her cheeks. I move to sit up, to comfort her, but pain rakes through me, rendering me immobile on the slick marble floor. From the shadows, the copper-haired vampire from earlier hurries over to us, dragging a servant by the collar.

“Mihal killed all other the servants so you wouldn’t have anyone to heal him,” the male—Owen?—says to Risna. “But I hid this one in my chamber.”

“Why are you helping us?” she asks.

“I’m a friend of a friend.” He hands the servant over to her. “I have my own reasons to dislike Mihal and want to see his reign cut short.”

At that, he bows in an overdramatic flourish and slips from the room.

“I have no idea who that was,” she says as she tears into the servant’s wrist like a wild animal. “Do you?”

I try to answer her, but the words will not set themselves free. My throat is as shredded as my back, and the pain from the silver poisoning is too much to bear.

“I’m so sorry about this.” She grips my jaw so I can hold her tear-stricken gaze. Mortal blood drips dangerously close to my mouth, pebbling my brow, my cheeks. “Please, don’t make me force this upon you. You’ll die from these wounds without human blood. Think of Rory.”

Will you be there when I wake up?

So long as you wish it, there will not be a time where you wake when I will not be by your side.

If I die, who will be there for Rory when she wakes? My vision blurs as the burning builds to a painful peak. I made a promise to my mate on that altar, a promise I intend to keep.

Though doing so comes with great risk. In the fibers of my soul, I know if the affliction claims me, my kindred will take care of Rory. I don’t even have to ask them to. They will love her the way her mortal family never did, and it will be a beautiful sight to behold. I can only hope I will be alive and sane enough to see it.

Resolve hardens within me.

If the affliction doesn’t claim me, nothing short of Mihal’s death will stop me from contesting his rule and vying for his seat on the Council of Seven.

I bite the servant with one harsh snap of my teeth.

“Heal.” Risna wipes bloody tears from her cheeks with the back of her sleeve. “Heal so we can take everything from Mihal.”

Chapter 17

RORY

When Quill claimed I’d swim among the stars, I hadn’t thought it’d be like this.

I imagined velvet skies and warmth and enough light to scare Death away from clawing at my ankles, desperate to drag me to hell.

That is not what this is.

It is dark and cold and so very lonely.

But it is beautiful.