“Can I tell you a secret?” she whispers.

I resume stroking her back. “Tell me all of them.”

“No. Just one.” She says it firmly, a reminder that I’m entitled to precisely nothing more than what she’s willing to give. “Being yanked back from the Void hurts. It’s the worst pain you can imagine—worse than the blade. The world doesn’t feel real after because a part of you is still trapped in that nothing between your last breath and your first. Every time you die, you lose more pieces of yourself. And it drives every Anchor mad.”

There’s a sudden twinge behind my ribs, a terrible squeezing. I brace for her next words.

“Let me send Theo letters,” she says, and it’s as close to begging as I’ve ever heard from her. “So she’s holding something real before she loses me for good.”

Fuck. This girl and her goddamn feelings.

I haven’t been burdened by sentiment in a long time. I’d almost forgotten the shape of it, that sharp wrench of emotion that leaves a hollow ache. With a few words, she’s twisted me up, and the rational part of me is shouting that I shouldn’t care. She’s just the human I’m using. Her sister called me a glorified carrier pigeon.

“Fine,” I hear myself say. “If you write, I’ll deliver your letters.”

Oh, you stupid fuck.

“Thank you.”

Two small words that shouldn’t feel so consequential. Why do they? Why? Why? She’s just entertainment. I’ll grow bored—I always do. But I think when I get her out of my system, she’s going to take a piece of me with her.

I let out a bitter laugh.

“What’s funny?” she asks.

“You could have the entire realms in the palm of your hand, couldn’t you?” I tilt her chin up, staring into those violet eyes. “A girl like you takes what she wants. How much would satisfy you?”

She goes still, pulse spiking. “All of it,” she whispers.

“All of it, huh? Including me?” I slide my hands down her thighs. “All of me?”

I’ve revealed too much. Given her a weapon shaped like my wanting, and placed it right in her vengeful little hands.

Something constricts in her features, an emotion I have no name for. No frame of reference. And then it’s like a door slams shut.

“Stop.”

“What?” I ask, blinking at her.

She slides off my lap, putting space between us. “We’re not doing this. Don’t talk to me or touch me like you care what I want,” she says calmly, almost cold. “Just be honest about what this is.”

Pull yourself together, asshole.

My face hardens into a mask of cold detachment, a lifetime’s practice of cruelty and distance. She’s given me the perfect opportunity to reestablish lines and cut all the emerging sentiment out of me. Cauterize it like an infected wound.

“Truth, then?” I ask her softly. “If you think you can worm past my defenses into some soft, weak place, that’s not going to happen. I’m sweet on you now because it amuses me, but don’t mistake my amusement for affection. Don’t think for one second that I care if you live or die beyond how much entertainment I can wring out of you first.”

There’s a terrible sort of knowing in her expression. “Thank you for reminding me you’re not any different from Alexios. You’re just another Eternal using me up before you finish me off.”

She disappears into the tower and slams the door shut.

The snow keeps falling, silent and relentless, and I think about impermanence. About things that melt with the dawn.

About the life I had before her family took it from me.

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20

BRYONY

THE WEEKS PASS in a blur. I wake up sore and aching, train with Amara until my vision blurs, the Wolf heals me, and then I do it again.

Shatter. Rebuild. Repeat.

When you’re raised for the altar, fury lives under your skin with nowhere to go. Nothing to sink its teeth into. Nothing to push against. A body’s just a vessel, and an Anchor’s body always breaks. Now, I’m learning that my body can be a weapon.

I’ve never felt it grow strong, never experienced the rush of letting all that wrath out and pushing past limits I didn’t know existed. So I seek it out—the control, the rage, the cuts, the bruises. Calluses harden my palms from clutching hilts and handles. I have muscles where there used to be softness.

And the Wolf watches me. There’s something about being the sole focus of a god’s attention that makes your blood run hot, even when you despise him.

Especially when you despise him.

I haven’t spoken to him since that night in the snow, and I’m savoring every second of his frustration. Every ignored attempt at conversation. Every time I walk by him like he’s furniture. Like he’s nothing.

The hallway encounters are my favorite. The way his jaw clenches and his wings flare slightly, instinctively trying to block my path. I brush past without acknowledging him. He’s used to humans crawling on their bellies for him, and I want him to taste what it’s like to want what he can’t have. Right now, his damaged pride is what’s keeping me alive.

He’ll want to conquer me before he kills me.

“Get up.” Amara’s wings block out the sun as she looms over me. “Lying there won’t save your ass in a real fight.”

“I could play dead,” I mutter, pushing myself up. “If I get good enough at it.”

She snorts. “Adorable. What’s the first rule?”

“Keep my weight on the balls of my feet. Stay fluid. Be ready to move.”

“Then why are you standing there like you’re posing for a portrait?”

She lunges, but this time I’m prepared. My blade meets hers with an impact that rattles my teeth.

“Better.” She eases back, something almost proud in her expression. “But you’re still in your head too much. Real combat is in your blood. Either you feel it, or you die. A god is stronger, faster, and powered by actual magic.”

“I only need to survive three days in Vartena,” I say. “Get through the guards, gut my uncle, and maybe damage the Wolf as petty revenge before he finishes me. I’m not trying to take on every demi in Scillari.”

“I don’t do things by halves, and you never know what might happen. You live longer if you keep him interested, right? Nothing interests a god that deranged more than a challenge. So if you’re going to fight, make it worth watching. Stop overthinking your footwork.”

I wipe the blood from my split lip. “And what happened to all that talk about proper form?”

She rolls her eyes. “Form is just the foundation, and you already know that. Now you learn how to cheat. It’ll keep the Wolf on his toes. Gods are arrogant bastards who expect humans to cower and beg. Use that.”

“What if they expect resistance?” I ask.

“Then give them submission until you’re close enough to slip steel between their ribs.”

*   *   *

The Wolf always comes at night.

I’m perched on the bed wearing only my shift, counting the new bruises and scrapes scattered over my skin, when he appears in my doorway. No knock. He doesn’t ask permission.

He tosses a folded letter onto the mattress beside me. “From your sister.”

I offer him the barest nod—the only acknowledgment he’s gotten from me for three weeks. I write to Theo, he delivers the letters, she writes back, and he brings them when he comes to heal me. That’s it. That’s all he gets.

He settles against the pillows next to me. “Come here.”

I let him pull me into his lap without protest. This is a dance we’ve perfected. His hands find my skin under my chemise, and that now-familiar heat sinks in, soothing away the day’s damage.

“The silent princess act is beneath you.” He says this a lot, as if it’ll irritate me into speaking. His thumb traces the curve of my shoulder. “It’s starting to piss me off. How much longer are we going to play this game? It’s been nearly a month, Devaliant.”