“I can’t kill her when she’s likely lying in a mangled heap in my guest room. It’s unsporting.”

“That,” Amara says slowly, “sounded dangerously close to an actual feeling.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m going to stitch her up, watch her squirm and snap at me, and then I’ll make her wish I’d killed her quickly. I’ve never had a Devaliant for a toy.”

It doesn’t matter that she woke something up when I touched her. It’ll pass.

Amara looks like she wants to argue. Like she can see right through my flimsy justifications.

Then she’s stepping back, wings flaring. “Fine, whatever.” She rolls her eyes. “I’ll bring her a dress. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

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13

BRYONY

THE DOOR OF the Wolf’s chamber thuds shut behind me. The room is lavishly appointed, with leather chairs and polished dark wood furniture, complete with bookshelves nearly reaching the vaulted ceiling. A killer’s lair dressed up as a gentleman’s sanctuary. At the far end is a four-poster bed with black silk sheets—the perfect place to lie down and die.

But I only manage three steps before my legs give out.

I crumple to the floor and curl onto my side, pulling my knees up to my chest to protect the vulnerable softness of my center. Darkness bleeds into my periphery. Breathing is excruciating.

I anchor myself in my old ritual—the raised scars I carved into my flesh, my fingertips mapping each ridge.

One jagged line. Breathe. Remember how your lungs expand and contract, how air flows in and out.

Two furrows. Feel. The carpet beneath your cheek, the chill of the floor.

Three gashes. Name. Bryony. No one can take it from you.

Four grooves. Present. You’re in Scillari.

Five scars. Agony means this is real.

I don’t know how long I lie there, counting scars and heartbeats. Hours, I think. Eventually, I register the soft snick of the door opening. Careful footfalls stalk closer.

The Wolf has returned to toy with his prey.

The footsteps halt. I sense his stare on me, as crushing and inexorable as his power. Shame scalds through me at the thought of how I must appear—curled up in a pathetic little ball, baring my teeth in a silent snarl even as furious tears burn my eyes.

I brace myself for brutality. For the bruising grip of his hands. For the bite of a blade against my throat, finishing what my uncle started.

It doesn’t come.

Instead, strong arms slip under me, scooping my limp body up and cradling me against a broad chest. His scent envelops me—citrus and evergreen.

“You should have told me how injured you were,” the Wolf says as he sets me on his bed.

I lick my cracked lips and rasp, “Find… another toy. This one’s broken.”

“Devaliant. Look at me.”

I drag my stare up to meet his. The hall light gilds his face and illuminates those amber eyes. Once, I thought the stories of his beauty were exaggerated. The reality is so much worse.

“Listen very carefully,” the Wolf says. “Can you do that for a minute?”

I nod.

“Good.” Warm fingers graze my cheek, and I can’t help but flinch. He gentles his touch but doesn’t pull away, the pad of his thumb skating over my cheekbone in an absent caress. “You’ve got two options. Option one: I use my power to knit you together, and we resume negotiating your death. Option two: I pour myself a drink and watch your demise in a disappointing conclusion. Take a guess which I’d prefer.”

Is he seriously asking me if I’d rather slowly bleed out here or let him murder me in the future? Those are my choices?

“Bastard,” I hiss.

Genuine laughter rumbles through him. “That was lacking in creativity or sting. The woman who called me pathetic can do better. What do you say? Am I healing you or letting you die?”

It’s so easy, isn’t it? To give in and live on whatever borrowed time he deigns to give me. But, on second thought, it would serve him right to be robbed of his shiny new plaything mere hours after acquiring it. I’m spiteful enough to deprive him of the joy of shattering me at his leisure.

“What if I want it to end?” I ask him.

Fury darkens his features. “You’re telling me that’s it? The Devaliant who had the spine to bargain with me for an ending on her terms is just going to quit?” He scoffs, disgusted. “Fuck me, that’s pitiful.”

I flinch as if he’s slapped me. Somehow, disappointing a god is worse than angering him.

But he’s not done. “So, is that your final answer? Please let me know if I should squander my time on shit like this or if you still want me to choke on your wrath.”

My own words flung at me as a challenge. I cut him open and demanded an end worthy of my rage, and now he wants the rest—the whole feast.

I could ask for other things. The chance to deal with Idris personally, for an opportunity to say goodbye to Theo. Things he might be willing to grant if I make it worth his while.

So I set my jaw. “Get on with it, then.”

Satisfaction flares. “There you are. I knew you wouldn’t bore me.” He reaches out and hooks a finger under my chin to tip my face up to his. “You’re the very best sort of nemesis. The kind with teeth.”

His hand drops to Amara’s belt at my waist. One sharp tug and the fabric parts, leaving me bare and exposed. Panic claws up my throat. I’ve never been naked in front of a man.

My hands lift to cover my breasts, but he bats them away with an impatient noise.

“Don’t,” he warns. “I have to assess the damage.”

My eyes slam shut. That’s almost worse, the not seeing. It amplifies everything—the hum through my body, the drag of his stare over every hurt and scar and flaw.

He carefully removes Amara’s bandages. With his other hand, his fingertips graze the puckered slash across my neck. I feel the weight of the Wolf’s gaze as it moves lower, taking in the stab wounds next—the chronicle of what I’ve endured. Of men and kings who sought to pour me into the narrow confines of sacred Anchor and oathbreaker and sacrifice, as if the whole of me could ever fit inside those tidy boxes.

“Devla svaust,” he mutters. “Even a butcher knows the value of a sharp knife and a steady hand. Only a hack takes dull steel to his work and abandons a pretty woman to bleed out on a mountain.”

His touch is gentle as he probes the gash on my ribs. I have to force down a pained moan at the fresh burst of agony.

“Red roses,” I gasp out.

He gives me a questioning look. “What?”

“When we’re… finished. The flowers in your atrium remind me of funeral roses… back home. Put them on my pyre. So you’ll remember me.”

His slow, devastating smile steals my breath.

Then he ruins it by opening his mouth.

“Don’t worry, Devaliant. When I end you, it will be a reckoning to echo through eternity. I’ll carve a monument to our mutual ruination from your bones and build you an altar worthy of the ages.”

He is an absolute lunatic.

I’m struck by the sudden, visceral certainty that this creature could swallow me whole. That he wants to. That when he’s wrung all the entertainment value he can from me, he’ll sink his teeth in and devour me.

“Anyone ever tell you that you’re deranged?” I ask.

“Endlessly. I’d be concerned if they didn’t.”

The Wolf splays his hands over my abdomen, his touch intimate. Strangely reverent. There’s an unnatural heat to his skin, his power a current humming between us, suddenly sinking hooks into me like claws.

I suck in a sharp, pained hiss.