“What about your loyalists?” I ask, helping her lace up a pair of boots. “The ones who tried to help you?”

“Dungeons, most likely. Along with anyone else who didn’t fall over themselves to bend the knee when Idris started cracking skulls.”

“We’ll figure out how to free them once you’re safe. How many?”

“A few dozen guards. Some staff. Idris’ men killed Kas.” The last words are quiet. Theodora was fond of her guard, not just as a lover. She clears her throat and composes herself. “What’s the escape route?”

“The old war tunnels,” I say. “I have a friend waiting to fly you somewhere safe.”

Her head snaps up. “And where will you be during all this?”

“Staying behind to deal with Idris.”

“Absolutely not.” She grabs a coat, yanking it on with agitated movements. “Either we leave together, or not at all.”

“Amara can only fly one of us, and someone has to keep Uncle occupied. He and I have unfinished business. Now stop arguing. Let’s go.”

I crack the door and peek out into the hall, listening hard. The guard’s body lies where I left it, his blood a sticky dark pool soaking into the carpet. I edge into the corridor with Theodora silent at my back.

She glances at the corpse but says nothing. Always practical, my sister.

I lead the way, sticking to the shadows. Two guards round the corner, deep in conversation. Their laughter rings out. I dart a frantic glance over my shoulder, but it’s too late to backtrack, and the only cover is—

There.

I seize Theodora by the arm and haul her into a cramped alcove. Her panicked breaths match mine.

Please walk by. For once in your miserable lives, just keep walking. Please.

But of course, they don’t.

One of them spots the body sprawled in front of my sister’s door and swears, drawing his sword. The other follows suit, shifting into a defensive position as they advance down the corridor.

“When I say run, you run,” I whisper to Theodora. “Understand?”

She nods.

I explode from the alcove. My first strike slices through the nearest guard’s extended sword arm. He shrieks and staggers back, his weapon clattering to the floor. I strike again, getting him right in the throat.

The second guard’s sword strikes in a dark blur. I duck under the swing, coming up inside his guard to bury my dagger in his armpit. Blood gushes over my knuckles as I wrench the knife free. He crumples to the floor.

I motion for Theo to run.

She flies past me toward the stairs. We’re halfway down when I hear shouts from above, the pounding of booted feet, and then the clanging peal of a bell.

The alarm.

Fear detonates in my chest. I seize Theodora’s elbow and haul her onward, but we’re not fast enough. A trio of guards spills around the corner ahead.

I shove my sister behind me. “Don’t wait for me. Get to the tunnels now.”

Then I launch myself at the guards.

Amara’s lessons take over, guiding my steps. My movements are economical and precise. Every strike aims to kill. I duck and spin, my knives flashing, darting to open throats and sever arteries. What I lack in raw strength, I make up for in speed and viciousness. Nothing exists outside the hammer of my pulse and the burn of my muscles. There is only the dance, the deadly poetry of motion.

One guard goes down. A second staggers back, hand clamped to the wound in his side. The third manages to backpedal out of range.

Behind me, Theodora cries out. I whirl to see Idris with a knife at her throat.

His eyes flicker over me. “Well,” he says. “If it isn’t my niece, back from the dead.” He jerks his head at me. “Drop the knife or I’ll bleed her.”

I clench my jaw and study the hold he has on the weapon. If I’m fast—

Idris digs the blade in harder, opening a shallow cut. Theodora goes rigid.

“Drop it, Bryony.”

My weapon clatters to the ground.

“Good. The ones up your sleeves, too.”

Teeth gritted, I shed blade after blade. All the daggers I earned from Evander during our game. The remaining guard surges forward to wrench my arms behind my back, and reinforcements flood the corridor. More swords than I can count are leveled my way.

“Orders, Your Majesty?” the guard at my back asks.

“Take them back to Theodora’s chambers. I want every man on the doors until I give the word. And ready the funeral wood,” Idris says. His gaze flickers to my sister. “You should be glad, Theo. We’ve finally got a body to put on the pyre.”

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41

EVANDER

THE ROSES ARE DEAD.

Not in the process of dying. Not wilting.

Dead.

Every last one of them withered in less than a day, their once vibrant petals now brittle and black.

It’s almost poetic. Bryony breathed life into these blooms, nurtured them when I couldn’t be bothered. Showed them more tenderness in a handful of days than I’ve managed in centuries.

And now they’re gone, just like her.

“Fuck!” I whirl, slamming my fist into the nearest wall.

Stone crumbles. Flames erupt across my wings as I turn and pace the garden.

Scillari’s always been a bitch with its messages, but it used to be more subtle. For hundreds of years, it let me wallow in my own shit, let me hide away in this tower. The roses that grew wild and untamed were just little reminders. Hey, asshole, remember you have power you’re wasting. I could ignore those.

But this? This is deliberate.

The garden didn’t just die. It was executed. The realm’s own personal “fuck you” for making Bryony walk away and letting the only person who made me feel something real in three centuries slip through my fingers.

I fucked her like I could purge her from my system. Like I could steal enough of her to fill the void in my chest that grief left behind. I want her etched into my bones, tattooed beneath my skin. I want to paint her throat purple with the press of my teeth and leave a map of fingerprint-shaped guides to all her weak spots.

Here is where she shivers. Here is where she sings. Press here to make her curse. Bite here to hear her beg.

Claim her. Keep her. Ruin her for any other touch but yours.

But if I did that, I’d be an even more selfish piece of shit than I already am. What I did to her can’t be described as anything but a defilement. Demanding pieces of her—all of her—until she’s carved down to nothing but the shape of my wanting wasn’t a kindness. It was a theft.

Those stories never mention how much you get off on mindfucking the women you screw.

Yeah, she took one look at the jagged, ugly sprawl of my obsession and recognized it for the monstrosity that it is.

Well done, Devaliant. Full marks for perception there, sweetheart.

That’s the way of gods and monsters, isn’t it? We don’t love—we devour. We conquer and hoard until there’s nothing left. We can’t gentle our teeth or blunt our claws.

Give me your devotion. Your submission. Every breath and broken scream. Give me give me give me…

I am a creature of infinite need, bent and breaking on the altar of one mortal woman. And that’s the cosmic joke, isn’t it? That when a thing hungers the way I hunger, it has precious little to offer in return. Just takes and takes and takes until it splits you open and leaves you gutted. I want to die with my teeth in her throat and her claws in my chest, ripping me open until she looks at me and sees someone worth keeping instead of putting down.

Here are all the wretched caverns, Devaliant. Here are all the screaming hollow places that no amount of touching, tasting, taking, fucking, will ever fill.