8

BRYONY

THE BLADE AGAINST my throat jolts me awake.

As I struggle to make sense of the intrusion, lips graze my ear. Then a whisper: “Time for that memorable death, Devaliant.”

It’s been two years since I last heard that voice, but I’d recognize it anywhere.

I open my eyes to find the Wolf staring at me. His irises glow, shifting from gold to bronze to copper, with the barest hint of blue that resembles the center of a flame. Those beautiful golden wings fan behind him as he leans in, dark hair falling across his forehead.

“Wolf,” I say softly in greeting.

A part of me is… resigned, almost. If there’s one lesson every Devaliant understands, it’s that we die badly. We always do. Choosing my death while I’m sane enough to appreciate it is why I made that deal with him in the first place.

“Devaliant,” he says. He bites his lower lip and releases it slowly in a cruel, mocking grin. “I heard you’ve been a bad girl.”

He’s enjoying my unease. Savoring his damn dagger being one twitch away from splitting me open.

“I wish I’d been worse,” I tell him. “I think you know I haven’t earned this.”

“Alexios doesn’t care what you think you’ve earned. And frankly, neither do I.”

Right. Since when have gods ever concerned themselves with fairness?

He pushes the blade forward slightly, not breaking the skin, but closer. Letting me feel it.

“You seem eager,” I say, holding back a flinch. “Should I be honored?”

“Honored. Flattered. Maybe even terrified, if you’ve any sense at all.” His grin widens as he looks me over, murmuring to himself, “Now, how should we pass the time before I kill you?”

I imagine how I must appear to him. Sleep-mussed and vulnerable, my hair tangled against the sheets. My nightgown has slipped off one shoulder, baring a long stretch of skin. I’d wager there’s no lovelier canvas for an artist of death.

“I’m not in the mood to pass the time with you,” I say coldly.

He makes a dismissive noise, as if my opinion doesn’t rank on his list of considerations. Then his attention falls to my throat, and his expression hardens. A gasp leaves me as his fingertips trace over—

My scar, I realize. He’s noticed my scar.

“Someone tried to steal your death from me.” His voice is deeper now, a lash of heated power scorching the air.

I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised he’s angry. He did tell me he was eager to put another Devaliant in the Void for good, and the man who gave me my scar nearly succeeded before the Wolf got the chance.

“A year ago,” I say, pushing down the memory. “Clearly, he failed. I want to—”

I inhale sharply as he bends his head to nose at the curve of my neck. To… scent me? Unnerve me more? I’m suddenly enveloped by the aroma of soap, citrus, and evergreen. Him.

“I want to remind you about our terms,” I finish breathlessly.

“Uninterrupted eye contact as you die.” His breath is warm against my skin.

Naturally, he’d remember his own insane demand first.

“That was your condition, Wolf. Not mine.”

“Then refresh my memory.” His lips graze my scar, and I get the sense that he’s playing with me. Batting me around between his paws before he rips me open. “Pretend I’m distractible.”

“No decapitation. No flaying. No disembowelment.” He grunts when I sink my nails into his arm. I tip my chin up, pressing into the blade’s bite. If I’m going to die tonight, I won’t do it screaming. I have some dignity. “You promised you’d pretend to treat me like an equal.”

“Seems a shame to limit me.” He trails the knife lower, scratching over my collarbone, raising goosebumps. “Maybe I’d like to make you a masterpiece.”

His masterpiece. Of course, a soulless monster like the Wolf sees brutality as an art.

“Why?” I ask him bitterly. “Because I’m an Anchor, or because I’m the only human who’s ever decided to waste precious breath negotiating with you?”

“Because I’ve waited three hundred years to have another Devaliant impaled on my knife, and some clumsy asshole”—he taps my scar—“tried to take you from me. I’m going to savor you.”

I clench my jaw. “No.”

He arches a brow. Oh, he’s enjoying this. Because I’m prey who bites back, even if it’s an exercise in futility. I know it. He knows it. The Wolf lowers the dagger, tracing the swell of my breast through the thin silk, as if he’s testing me. Seeing what I’ll do.

I don’t even twitch.

“What do you want then, Devaliant? For me to kiss you before I end you?” Then his eyes flick up to mine as he whispers, “Hard or soft?”

I seize his wrist. “I’d rather die with your blood on my hands.”

For a beat, I think he’ll slash me open after all. But then he smiles slowly, pulling away to stand. He shakes out his wings with a rasp of feathers. “Then get up,” he orders, sheathing his blade.

“What?”

“I won’t ask twice.”

I get out of bed, watching him reach for the fastenings of his breastplate. He unbuckles the clasps with deft fingers and drops it to the floor with a muted clank. My breath catches as he strips off the undershirt fastened between his gold wings, baring a torso of taut muscle and gleaming skin. There isn’t anything soft about this god. His body is as much a weapon as his dagger.

My mouth goes dry. “What are you doing?”

“Playing with my food before eating it,” he says with a smirk.

Everything in me freezes. His promise to give me a good death wasn’t a pact made in blood. No contract, no divine obligations. If he wanted, he could make this as slow and painful as possible.

“So I’m a mouse to your cat?”

“Mouse? No.” The Wolf wraps his hand around my throat. Not squeezing, but a warning that he could. “Mice are smart enough not to dictate terms to cats. They know better.”

My pulse flutters against his grip. “What am I, then?”

“The daughter of an arrogant house who should be grateful I’m humoring her instead of slitting her throat and calling it a night.”

He reaches behind his back, drawing a smaller dagger from a hidden sheath between his shoulder blades. Power thrums through the metal—there’s a god’s magic embedded in that knife.

“Turpori craftsmanship,” he says, watching me. “The only metal that can make an Eternal bleed.” He seizes my hand, places the hilt in my palm, and curls my fingers around it. “I meant what I said before. You and I aren’t equals. I’m a god, and you’re just a doomed girl living on time I let you borrow. But since you didn’t earn my execution, I’ll give you your dying wish. Take this blade and carve yourself a death so memorable, I’ll carry it for eternity.”

I blink. “Is this a trick?”

He scowls at me. “I never trick when it comes to spilling blood. It’s the only thing I hold sacred.”

It has to be a trap—a cruel game. But when I search his face, I find no trace of deceit. Only a dark sort of anticipation. “Why? Why let me do this?”

“I’m bored. And you’re interesting. So congratulations, you get to be tonight’s diversion. I’m giving you a real chance to deserve your death—no tricks. No traps. Just you, me, and this knife.” His lips brush my ear as he whispers, “Wherever you want to put it, Devaliant. I’m all yours.”

“Wherever?”

“That’s what I said. So take it or get on with dying. Your choice.”

My hand shakes as I study the blade. A maelstrom of emotions rises in me—a lifetime’s worth of smothered fury clamoring for release. “What if I’m tired of being a god’s toy?”

His indulgent mood vanishes in an instant. “Oh, poor baby,” he sneers. “What a shit hand you’ve been dealt, huh? The princess cutting herself open every other week like a good little sacrifice. Letting all that helpless anger fester.”