And I lick the gash before it can heal.

“Now this blade will remember how you taste,” I hiss, stabbing the dagger into the chair inches from his head. “And so will I.”

We’re both breathing hard now, our chests touching. Hearts beating against each other. He glares up at me, but his hands slide to my ass, yanking me flush against his aroused cock.

“Fuck, I hate you,” he growls.

I lean in close, lips brushing his ear. “Then hate me harder.”

His hips jerk, rolling up to meet me in a slow, dirty grind that makes my breath catch. I match him without thinking, our bodies falling into a rhythm as natural as violence. Graceless. Artless. As inevitable as gravity. My head falls back as he thrusts up against me. The chair creaks with each movement, a counterpoint to our harsh breathing.

“I hate everything about you.” His hands roam over my back, my sides, grasping. “I hate your smart fucking mouth and how it asks too many questions. I hate how you feel against me.”

Liar, I think as he dips his head and flicks his tongue over my pulse. You love it.

I rock into him harder, chasing friction. His fingers dig into my hips hard enough to bruise, to mark me. I imagine him covering me in blue and brown and yellow shaped like his fingers. Like the imprints of his teeth. Every mark would be evidence of his unraveling control, hidden beneath my clothes like secrets.

“I hate how you touch me,” he rasps, lips moving to my jaw. “Hate that I get so damn hard whenever I see you.”

It’s aggressive, almost violent, the way we collide. The way his hips slam into mine, his hard cock grinding against my pussy through our clothes.

But there’s poetry too. In the rough noises he makes when I ride him just right. The reverence of his touch, his mouth as he kisses down my neck. His breath shaping secrets against my pulse. Like a dark liturgy. Like worship.

And maybe it’s madness—this desperate urge to offer myself up to his mouth and hands, to take in all his darkness. To let his edges cut me open until we both bleed.

I don’t give a fuck if you die, he said weeks ago. But I’ll make damn sure he remembers me. I’m going to carve myself so deeply into his bones that when he kills me, he’ll never be free of me.

I wrap my hand around his throat, squeezing until I feel his pulse spike against my palm. Hard enough to make my point.

Leaning in, I let my lips graze his ear. “This is killing you, isn’t it?” I whisper. “Wanting me?”

He goes rigid beneath me.

Got you.

“If you want to understand a thing, you have to learn its nature, right?” I say, throwing his own words back at him. “You know what I think? You hide behind cruelty because it’s easier than admitting I make you feel anything but rage.”

He sneers. “Shut up. You’re nothing.”

“Nothing doesn’t make you pace outside my door because I’m not talking to you. Nothing doesn’t drive you insane.” I press my nails into his chest, relishing the way his muscles jump. “I’ll bet there isn’t a day that goes by that you don’t think about me. You hate me because I’m under your skin, and you’re still trying to dig me out. You fell apart when I wasn’t speaking to you because you need this, don’t you? My attention, my touch, me.” I roll my hips again, slower this time, deliberate. Relishing the way his mouth parts on a breath. “Yeah, you need this so fucking bad that you get yourself off thinking about all the ways you could have me. I’ll bet you come with my name on your lips and hate yourself after.” I brush my lips down his jaw and breathe, “I’ll bet wanting me eats. You. Alive.”

I pull back slowly, drinking in the sight of him. At my mercy and speechless for once.

“Tell me something, Wolf,” I say into the charged space between our mouths. “When you dream of me now, is it with my blood on your hands? Or your tongue between my thighs?”

His fingers dig into my hips hard enough to leave marks, and for a moment, I think he might finally snap and take what we both know he wants.

But I don’t give him the chance.

With a final, vicious grind, I yank my knife out of the chair and climb off him. I don’t look back as I gather the blades and collect my fallen robe.

“I’m going to go enjoy my new knives. Sweet dreams,” I tell him with a grin and a little wave.

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24

THEODORA

NO ONE TELLS you that ruling means being a performer.

Drip.

You can be taught all the right things on your father’s knee—sit straight, think before speaking, trust your instincts—but pretending to be whole when you’re falling apart? That takes skill. That takes—

The tide rushes in and yanks you under. The more you drown, the longer it takes to die. And the longer it takes to die, the deeper you sink.

Down.

Drip.

An Anchor’s body is gold. You learn the value of it in how they treat you at the altar. The Oracle always runs her fingers through my hair, her touch gentle until it isn’t.

“Good girl,” she coos, right before she shoves the blade into my ribs.

When I gasp back to life, there she is again. Same words. “Good girl. Such a good girl.” Like I’m a pet performing a trick.

Fuck. You.

Drip.

Blood is my war paint. I don’t accept the cleansing after the ceremony. This body needs a reminder. It needs to know that it’s not a drowning set of lungs; it belongs to a woman, and that woman is me.

So I shove off the altar and let the blood drip through my gold temple dress. Let it paint my skin. I am going to fuck in all this blood.

I just need to walk out of the temple, down ten steps, and get into the carriage.

Drip.

“Your Highness?” Kas, my guard, falls into step beside me.

I don’t look at him. “I want it in the carriage.”

I’ve been called many things by many lovers. Ice queen. Heartless. Frigid bitch. They expect tenderness after I’ve let them inside me, as if I owe them that. As if they’re entitled to more than I’m willing to give.

I’m not interested in feelings. I’m trying to keep this body alive, and so it needs touch.

“Whatever you want,” Kas says as we exit the temple.

That’s why I keep him close. He doesn’t ask for what I can’t give, and the blood doesn’t bother him. It excites him.

Sensation crashes over me in waves—sight, sound, touch. Sun in my eyes. Too many voices. Too sharp. Too much. The trick is to focus on something small when everything feels too big: the pressure of Kas’ fingers, the weight of my dress, the way my heart pounds. My breath.

In. Out. In. Out. Don’t think about how you can’t feel your fingers yet. In. Out.

I force my legs to keep moving.

Find solid ground. Come on, Theo.

I stumble slightly, and hands close around my arms, steadying me before my trembling knees can fold.

“I have you, Your Highness.” Kas’ voice, low and measured. Grounding.

I meet my bodyguard’s gaze, those eyes missing nothing as they note my unsteady movements. No softness there, no tenderness, only the keen assessment of a professional for his charge.

“The crowd?” I ask.

“Worse than usual.” His attention flickers to the barricades outside the temple and the throng beyond. “We’ll have to move quickly.”

Nothing’s been right in the city since Bryony’s “death”. Oh, we staged a lovely public funeral a fortnight ago—an empty casket, my uncle’s fake tears as he convincingly told everyone that the Wolf had come for their princess. But Lucinian practice dictates a pyre with the body on public display, and generations of Devaliants observed the custom. And all Idris had to show everyone was Bryony’s blood-soaked dress. Funny how skeptical the masses become when you can’t produce a corpse to burn.