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Malakar gripped the token more firmly, pulling her another few inches toward him. “Who did this to you?” he asked, and Elyria recoiled.
For a second, she flashed back to that moonlit hallway in the Celestial Sanctum, to the way those same words had fallen from Cedric’s lips when he saw the scars carved into her thighs. Back then, his voice had been like the first signs of spring thawing a long, cold winter. That night had been one of the first indications that she and Cedric were connected on a level that went beyond what she had been able to comprehend at the time.
The way Malakar spoke those same words now, though, was an assault. An unwanted claim. She hated it. Hated him. Hated how it immediately tainted her memory, ruined that moment.
Something behind her ribs fluttered—a spasm, an ache—as if in protest of that thought. Elyria nearly gasped. It had been so long since she’d felt anything close to that. Almost like a—
“You are bonded,” Malakar said, ripping her attention back to him. “How interesting.”
The chain from Cedric’s token dug painfully into the back of Elyria’s neck as the dark sorcerer lifted it, examining the stone with deeper interest.
She saw the moment realization dawned on his face, and Elyria wanted to crumple to the floor.
“No wonder you came with me so willingly,” he said softly, dropping Cedric’s token but grasping Elyria by the neck once more. “To a human, no less. The one from the tower. ‘He is nothing like you.’ Is that right?”
She didn’t answer.
“Who is he?”
She didn’t answer.
“Tell me.” His fingers dug into her hard enough to bruise.
She released a hiss of pain.
There was a quiet clearing of a throat. “Mi sanguinexos, if I may, perhaps—”
“Quiet,” he reprimanded.
Elyria blinked at Petra, suddenly standing next to her. She hadn’t even realized the girl had gotten back up.
Petra pressed her lips together, her bloodshot gaze darting nervously around the room. Elyria didn’t understand why she wasn’t running . . . until her eyes fell to Petra’s neck, and she realized that though he had loosened its choking hold, that shadowy collar was still there, a smoky leash.
“If a bond is what has locked my power inside you,” murmured Malakar, looking Elyria over as though he was puzzling out an equation, “then perhaps . . .” He trailed off, his eyes darkening.
All the blood drained from Elyria’s face. She felt another pang behind her ribs—almost painful, this time.
“Perhaps another bond is what it will take to free it.”
Elyria thought surely the sound of her heart dropping into the pit of her stomach had to have been audible. She swallowed back bile. Bit the inside of her cheek so hard, she tasted copper on her tongue. But her voice was like a steel blade when she said, “Touch me, and I will take your power with me straight to the Hereafter, where you will never get it back.”
His lip curled. His grip tightened. “You overestimate your leverage.”
“And you underestimate how far I’m willing to go.”
“Do I? And here I was, about to say the same about you. Bonds were made to be broken, regina. I think I will enjoy finally seeing you break.”
It was like it happened in slow motion.
The way he spun Elyria around, pulling her until her back was flush against his front.
The way he lifted his hand.
The curling of his long fingers, one by one, into a fist.
A bloodcurdling shriek—lasting barely more than a single second.
A splash of warmth across Elyria’s face.
