“The Eternal wants her for the pyre,” he says. “When Alexios rescinded his Claim, she became nothing. Worthless.”

“Is that what you think?”

Movement snags my periphery—one of the few remaining guards, too stupid to play dead and taking advantage of my distraction to slip in close. I flick my wrist, halting him mid-step with an invisible tether.

“She’s not worthless to me,” I say softly. “And now you’ve gone and cut her. That’s my privilege.”

I close my fist.

The guard’s scream fills the courtyard, rising into something almost musical before it cuts off. In seconds, there’s nothing left of him but ash spiraling in the air.

Another guard turns to run, but I extend my power and squeeze. The sound of his ribs splintering is like kindling being snapped in half. His body crumples to the ground.

“Interesting thing about anatomy,” I say, returning my attention to Idris. “Doesn’t matter if it’s a god or a human, if you squeeze at a thirty-five-degree angle, you can pulp the lungs inside the chest cavity. Learned that one from the last asshole stupid enough to put hands on my woman like she was nothing. And you know, there was this great moment right at the end—a singular squeal. He actually tried to suck his own liquefied organs back down his windpipe when I tore out his heart.” I step over the body. “It was almost disappointing how quickly he died. But when it comes to my woman, I don’t have my usual restraint.”

Idris blanches. “Fuck, you actually want her, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I want her.” I flick a glance at where he’s holding her. “And I’ll slaughter every bastard who’s ever put hands on her.”

His face has gone ashen and slick with a sheen of sweat. Good. Let him feel the gravity of his mistake, the weight of my undivided focus—a thousand years of ruthless violence and unholy appetites sharpened to a ferocious point.

“You can’t hurt me.” He swallows hard. “I’m an Anchor.”

I shake my head, clicking my tongue. “You’ve still got your hands on what’s mine.”

The emperor makes a panicked noise and immediately releases her. “Take her, then. Claim her. I don’t care.”

“I care,” I say, still grinning. “And my claim isn’t the one that matters here. Hers is.”

My power lashes out, yanking the blade from Idris’ grasp and wrapping around his throat. The weapon clatters to the ground. He gags, fingers scrabbling uselessly at the phantom noose cinched tight around him.

I look at Bryony, and I hope she sees everything I feel for her—love and the kind of devotion that would annihilate realms.

Another tendril of my power snaps the cuffs binding her wrists. “Have at him, vicious girl. Let’s find out how prettily you can make him scream for us.”

The smile she gives me nearly brings me to my knees.

Then Bryony slams an elbow into Idris’ stomach. She snatches up the blade, drives it to the hilt in her uncle’s thigh, and rips it free.

Idris screams. It’s high and keening—the scream of a coward. A nice, beautiful aria just for her. I settle in to watch her destroy him.

“That,” Bryony says, “is for the Duehavn.” She plunges the knife into his stomach. “That’s for making my death last as long as possible.”

She yanks the blade out and stabs it into Idris’ chest next, falling on the ground with him. His whimper is almost precious. Damn me, I could watch her do this all day.

“This?” Another brutal stab. “This is for leaving me there to die alone like I was nothing.”

I’d always known that if I ever took a Chosen, she’d have to be someone savage. My mother used to tell me no one else would match me. This woman? This fierce, glorious creature splattered in blood and taking her vengeance? She’s it for me. If she were a religion, I’d pray to her.

Bryony wrenches Idris’ head back. I want to compose music to the sound of his airless keening.

“Look at me.” Her voice is a dark rasp as she notches the dagger beneath his chin. “I want my face to be the last thing you see before the Void takes you. And I want you to remember that this is a better death than the one you gave me.”

Then she shoves the blade into his jugular.

Idris’ hands scrabble weakly at his throat. The sound of him choking on the blade fills the courtyard. Bryony keeps her eyes on him, never looking away, just watching as he gives a last rattling exhale.

Then she gets to her feet, head thrown back, her chest heaving. She’s a portrait of vengeance—of survival. And in the entire span of my existence, I’ve never seen anything so heart-stoppingly gorgeous.

I hold out a hand, power still crackling over my skin. “Hey, nemesis.”

Her grip tightens on the dagger’s hilt, and fuck me if it doesn’t make me want to lay myself at her feet and beg her to cut me to pieces. Feed me my own heart, Devaliant. Why not? She already owns it.

“You’re early,” she says lowly.

“Amara came to me.”

Her eyes snap to mine, and for a devastating moment, I drown in the accusation, the raw betrayal there. “I would’ve been fine. We agreed on three days—”

“I know. I know, just…” I swallow. “Let me hold you. Be mine right now.”

Something in her uncoils at that, a subtle release of tension in her shoulders. She drops the knife and lets me pull her close.

“Evander,” she says, so soft it’s barely more than an exhale against my chest.

I love the way my name sounds in her mouth. She shapes it like a prayer. I want to hear her say it every way there is—gasped into my skin, when the sun rises in the morning, moaned in climax. I want to hear her say it every damn day of my eternity, if she’s willing to take my battered and broken soul and let me tie it to hers.

I want to keep her.

We stay like that for a moment, just breathing. Existing. My fingers clench in her hair as I drag the scent of her deep into my lungs. I’d hold her forever if I could.

“Bry?”

Bryony yanks away from me. I turn to see Theodora Devaliant staggering down the palace steps and through the slaughter. She’s battered, her face covered in bruises, and one eye is swollen shut. To her credit, her expression remains neutral even surrounded by carnage. Seems the elder Devaliant sister has seen plenty of death before.

“Theo,” Bryony says. “The guards?”

“The ones on me either fled or died.” She glances at me with a stern expression. “Wolf. I’ll credit you with impeccable timing.”

And absolutely nothing else, asshole, that look says.

I don’t usually stick around after delivering Bryony’s letters to her sister, but over the last five weeks, I’ve come to appreciate Theodora Devaliant’s unwavering ability to stare at me like she’s about to give me a prize for mediocrity.

Bryony smacks me lightly on the arm. “Go heal my sister.”

“I’d tell you to ask nicely, but I see you’re in a commanding mood.” I approach Theodora and lift my hand. “May I?”

She nods curtly.

Settling my hand on her cheek, I extend my power to mend all her cuts and scratches. The bruising on her ribs, the scrapes on her knuckles, the swollen eye.

“I see you haven’t lost your flair for dramatic entrances,” she tells me.

“Apologies for the mess, but your uncle had an unfortunate accident. Fell on a blade. Repeatedly. After threatening what’s mine.”

Theodora cuts a glance over the courtyard. “An improvement to the masonry, I’m sure.”

I keep my power as brusque as a healer, with none of the lingering tendrils of heat I use to tease Byrony and make her chase my touch.

When Theodora is all healed up, I return to my Devaliant’s side and pull her into me.

“Thank you,” Theodora says. I notice the considering tilt to her head as she takes in my possessive grip on her sister. Her attention returns to Bryony. “Well?”

Bryony tenses. “Well what?”

“Is it true?” Theodora presses softly. Gently. “What he said. Are you his?”