Executing a perfect counter, he flicked his blade around and swung up instead, carving a line from navel to neck on the male. With an anguished cry, he fell backward. “Please,” the male managed to get out, one hand stretched between them as if that would hold off the youngling stalking his way. But Rokath knew no mercy, so he gave no mercy. With one swift kick, he flattened the male, and then he plunged the sharp tip of his sword into the male’s heart.

Wasting no time, he backstepped off of him and called forth more magic, raising him to stand again. The only living opponent unleashed a scream as his friends attacked him together. Rokath hung back, manipulating the bodies, until those sounds died along with their owner.

Then, there was silence.

Until a single, slow clapper filled the yard with the sound of his approval. “Well done, Rokath,” the Kral said, though a hint of mocking threaded his tone. Rokath spun and dropped to one knee before his uncle. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his cousin, Xannirin, watching the exchange with apprehension.

The two loved living away from Uzhhorod, out of sight of their fathers, though Rokath’s appeared far more frequently than Xannirin’s. Both were familiar with their family’s famous temper, though Rokath possessed it in spades, while Xannirin did not. Their fathers, on the other hand, were notorious, just like their brother.

“He could have done better,” the father groused, snapping at his son. Rokath rose, heat flaring in his chest and tightening the muscles in his neck and jaw. But he did not look at his father and his uncle, and instead kept his eyes downcast as he waited for the judgment that would surely fall.

“I shall take him to my quarters and discipline him at once. That is the only way he learns,” the father said as if his son was not standing mere feet from him.

Rokath closed his eyes, attempting to rein in his fury and block out any expression flitting across his cousin’s face. He didn’t need Xannirin’s pity. He was strong enough to bear the brunt of his father’s abuse for both of them.

He was strong enough to kill him.

“Very well. I must return to Uzhhorod. Xannirin,” he barked at his son.

“Yes, father?” he gritted out, trying to smooth his tone so as not to give away his fear for his cousin.

“Join me as the groom saddles my horse. I have a lesson I want to impart before I go,” he said, a haughtiness to his tone that spoke of his self-importance. Xannirin acquiesced immediately, while Rokath dragged himself toward his father. The two cousins shot each other long looks that spoke of their mutual support and understanding and of all the plans they dreamed together on long nights after suffering their fathers’ abuse.

Rokath tore his attention forward again, bracing for what he knew would be a rough beating, if not worse, for some slight he did not understand. He’d executed every movement perfectly, wielded his magic with two opponents, and not suffered a scratch. But if his father wanted something, or rather someone, to abuse, he didn’t need much of an excuse to carry it out.

The door to his father’s chamber burst open, banging against the stone wall behind it, and Rokath stepped obediently into the room before closing the barrier behind him. The click had barely sounded before his father pounced, grabbing his son by the shirt collar and dragging him forward.

But Rokath halted, letting the fabric rip from his body and display the first ink he’d etched into his skin the prior month. Despite not being of age yet, he’d grown stronger, more muscular, more lethal, in the months his father had been gone. To his father, Rokath appeared as a feral youngling with too much bravado and not enough sense. So he tossed the shirt aside and glared at his son before launching forward again.

A laugh emanated from Rokath, and he caught the flying fist of his father. All the life had drained from his eyes, until there was nothing but a ruthless, cold fury that licked through every ounce of blood in his body. The smile that spread across his face as he twisted his father’s arm was pure wickedness.

His father yelled from the pain, and Rokath cranked harder, forcing his father’s arm up his back as he yanked him to his chest. Then, in a low, gravely voice, he spoke in his father’s ear, “This is the last time you will ever lay a hand on me.”

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24

The Halálhívó and I glared at each other, neither of us saying anything. Cold cruelty was etched into his face, along with countless black tattoos. Yet a deadly fury ignited in his burgundy eyes. The intensity that radiated off him had only increased since he’d roughly dragged me into his personal tent. He was everything I’d expected from the descriptions given of him by Priestess Anara and the other Vezető.

Izgath…

The thought of the male I’d been slowly opening up to during our time together speared me with an icy dagger of grief. He died because of me, because I didn’t just accept my fate the moment I killed Vagach.

Everyone I loved died.

The circle tattooed between my shoulderblades burned with as much hatred as I did. My fucking mate mark. How could the Fates make him my mate? How could they bind our tapestries together with no recourse to unravel it? What kind of sick, twisted joke had they determined to play on me?

Maybe the Reaper had cursed me after all.

I’d dreamed about having a mate that would empower me, give me autonomy, free me from the invisible shackles placed upon females in the Demon Realm. Instead, they gave me one of the males responsible for it all.

During my marriage to Vagach, my fury had barely been restrained; caging it now would be utterly impossible.

“What is your name?” he finally growled, uncrossing his arms and shoving off the post where he’d been leaning. At least he had the decency to offer me clothing to cover myself, though my back still stung with the lashes from the whips. I hoped I was staining his tunic with my blood.

I scoffed, shoving my hair behind my ears and lifting my chin. “Why should I tell you? It’s clear that you don’t want me.”

His eyes flashed in a way that made my body go entirely still. “Little imposter, you have no idea what I want.”

“You’re the Halálhívó. You want to tie me to this bed, impregnate me, then ride off into battle and slaughter every Angel you come across. You’re not that complicated,” I shot back. I shuffled myself around on his bed so my knees were tucked beneath me, ready to launch myself at him should the need arise. Then, I crossed my arms in a move of self preservation.

He raised a dark brow, crinkling the snake’s fang that stretched out onto his forehead. Then, his gravelly voice appeared in my mind. “I can force it out of your pretty little head, if that is the game you want to play.”

“I still don’t understand why you even want to know,” I responded in kind, narrowing my eyes on him.

His expression remained as frigid and flat as his personality. “If I am going to have a weakness, I at least want to know its name.”

“It? I’m an it now?” I exclaimed, throwing my hands in the air. “I guess I shouldn’t expect to be seen as a person by the likes of you. The Fates-chosen hero, along with the fucking Kral.”

“Don’t you dare talk about him like that,” he snapped, taking a powerful step forward.

All fear bled from me as rage rose to protect me instead. I bared my teeth. “Sounds like you have more than one weakness, Halálhívó.”

He closed the remaining distance between us, shoulders heaving and neck muscles bulging beneath the tattoos that decorated them. He spit out his next words like one of the deadly cobras spitting its venom. “Make no mistake, little imposter. I am not a hero. I am undoubtedly a villain. And if I don’t scare you now, I will make it a point to do so.”