“You’re awfully defensive about some roses. Maybe I want to know more about the male who’s going to kill me. Is that so strange?”

“Strange? No. Foolish? Absolutely. The more you know about the monster, the harder it becomes to despise him.”

“Bold of you to assume I could ever stop despising you.”

I glare at her and shove another pulse of magic into her body, watching her eyes flutter shut. A low moan catches between her teeth as the last injuries knit closed without a mark left behind.

“You’re as mended as you’ll ever be.” I run careful fingers over the smooth skin. “Not even a scar. See? I’m very talented.”

Emotions flicker over her features as she takes in the flawless expanse of her torso. “It’s like it never happened.”

Something in me gentles. “The worst ones never really go away. No power in either realm can heal those.”

Those are carved into the soul, knotted up and gnarled in all the black spaces. The holes where something precious used to live before it was ripped out at the root.

My attention snags on her arm—on the ladder of neat marks scoring her flesh on the inside crease of her elbow. Deliberate. I trace the outer ridge with my finger with a barely there graze. “These aren’t from a fight.”

They’re too precise. Each notch is the same depth and width, five of them lined up like little soldiers.

A sudden tension thrums through her. “No. Those are private.”

“And this?” I shift to the mark slashed across her throat, a brutal seam of scar. It was a killing stroke. “Is this private?”

The Devaliant clears her throat, shrugging back into my shirt. “It was given to me,” she says, doing up the buttons, covering up all that flawless skin again. She makes no move to dislodge herself from my lap. “By a nobleman who thought he was entitled to take whatever he wanted. When I refused him, he decided if he couldn’t have me, no one would.”

A quiet rage simmers through my veins. What sort of cowardly piece of shit tries to murder a woman over saying no?

“Give me his name.” I can’t keep the anger out of my command.

The beginnings of a slow, savage smile tugs at her mouth—a glimpse of the creature she could become if given enough time and the right incentive. “He’s already dead. The palace guards saw to it.”

Some of my bloodlust banks. “Then where are his remains?”

The amusement stays. I love that expression on her, the way her face lights up. “Planning to decorate your garden with a rotting corpse, Wolf?”

“Don’t be crass. I’d get you a courting gift first. Carve his spine into twin hunting knives and present them to you on a bed of his viscera as an early deathday present.”

Because nothing says budding nemesis-ship like the desecrated corpse of her would-be murderer. I’m thoughtful when I put my mind to it.

For a moment, she just stares at me as if trying to parse whether I’m joking.

I’m really, really not.

But slowly, impossibly, the corner of her lips twitch—and then I hear it. A short burst of laughter. A fragile thing, barely there and gone too fast, but real.

My chest squeezes. Do it again, I almost command. Do it until I get sick of it.

“Corpse mutilation is a waste of your talents,” she says, still smiling. “Sweet thought, though. In a disturbing, deranged sort of way.”

“I have my moments.” I trace the shape of her scar again in a leisurely drag that makes her breath catch. I want to memorize every bump and ridge, every mark and hollow. To paint the patterns of her pain with my fingertips until I’m able to recall them blind. “He went for your throat like a craven because he knew that’s where he could steal your voice.”

Where he could leave her silent and small. The kind of woman who bargains death with a god deserves better than cowardice.

The Devaliant’s face shutters, all that lovely amusement fading. “Yes. The healers did their best, but…” She trails off with a half-shrug. “My voice was never quite the same after.”

I curve my palm around her nape, fingers sinking into her hair. Power unspools from me in slow, pulsing waves, and the Devaliant tenses at the first electric lick of it over her skin. The instinctive flinch of prey.

“Name all your enemies,” I say. “Everyone who might hurt you.”

A considering pause. “Well, there’s you. Obviously.”

This fucking girl.

“Someone other than me. I want to know who might think to snatch you off the board before I’ve finished playing with you.” I tighten my grip, relishing her sharp inhale. “Give me names.”

“I hardly think it matters at this point.”

“It matters,” I growl, “because now you’re an Unclaimed Devaliant.” I tap her bare wrist where Alexios’ mark used to glow. “Which makes you a prize. Every human and demi in the realms will be salivating at the chance to collar you.” To rip you open and rearrange all the messy bits into a shape that pleases them.

She looks away. “Look, just take me back to Vartena and let me deal with the person who tried to kill me on my own terms. Give me time to say goodbye to my sister. I’m sure you’ll get your piece of flesh from me before anyone else.”

“Tell me you’re not completely helpless, at least.” I duck my head to meet her gaze. “That you can use a blade. Anything that might make me believe you won’t be dead within an hour of crossing the Shroud.”

The Devaliant’s expression shutters. “I’m a Princess of the Blood. We don’t fight. We bleed.”

Of course. Of course, they taught her jack shit. They wanted her soft and yielding. Built for the altar, for bearing little Devaliant brats to continue the line of Anchors.

I can keep Alexios and Bastien off her scent until I hunt her down. But whoever dumped her on that ridge and left her to bleed out in the cold? Any other filth who sees the Devaliant and feels entitled to her?

Too many variables. Too many opportunities for someone to steal her. She wouldn’t last a day.

“Change of terms,” I say on impulse.

The Devaliant stills. “Sorry?”

“I’m not taking you back yet. You’re staying here.”

“No.” She jerks away, nearly falling off my lap. “You can’t—you’re not Claiming me, are you? After what Alexios did—”

I catch her wrist, squeezing. “Would you shut up for five seconds? I don’t want a Claim, you impossible creature.” Her pulse hammers against my fingers. So fragile. So damn breakable. “How exactly do you plan to get revenge? I’m betting the person who put you on the Duehavn has guards, right? Protection detail you’d have to get through? And the only blades you’ve handled are the ones you’ve used on yourself and whatever butter knife they trusted you with at dinner.”

Her jaw clenches. I’ve struck a nerve. “Then teach me to fight.”

I don’t hesitate. “Done.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. She wasn’t expecting that—probably assumed I’d laugh at her. “Just like that? I thought you detested me.”

“Oh, I fucking loathe you.” It’s important she understands this, that every mercy and moment of kindness are gifts I grant for my own amusement. “I hate everything about your family. The sound of your name makes me want to tear out your throat. But I have no intention of letting anyone else kill you. Nothing that’s mine gets broken unless I’m the one to break it.”

“How generous of you.”

“I’m a giver.”

Silence stretches. I let it linger, let her consider my offer, watching emotions chase across her face as she weighs her options.

“Wait.” She shifts on my lap. “I thought Alexios wanted my corpse.”

I shrug. “Alexios will get what’s left when I’m done. As far as he needs to know, scavengers got to you first. They would have if Amara hadn’t found you.”

“And what price am I expected to pay for this?” she asks with a scowl. “What do you get out of it?”

I stroke my knuckles down her cheek. “I’m not doing this out of the goodness of my heart. If it hasn’t escaped your notice, I’m prone to destructive behavior in my boredom, and you’re the worst idea I’ve had in centuries. I’m curious to see what sort of monster I can shape you into, given time and a blade.”