Shivers of pleasure wracked my frame as we remained wrapped in one another, coming down from the highs of our coupling. Rokath licked at the spot he’d bloodied on my shoulder, soothing the ache. With our fast healing ability, the wound was already closing over.

“Mine,” he said one last time, planting a kiss on the crook of my neck, my pulse point, and then the spot just below my ear.

“Yours,” I replied, scratching the base of his skull with my nails.

When he finally reared back and locked eyes with me, the darkness in them had abated. No longer drunk on lust, he simply held me like I was his most precious possession. He ran his knuckles along my sweaty temple and smoothed the hair out of my face.

“I think it’s time you told me what happened to you. What shaped you into the male you are today. The full, whole truth. No shutting down or brushing me off anymore. I deserve it after everything,” I murmured, leaning into his comfort.

Rokath stiffened before blowing out a long breath. “Fine. But not here. In our tent. And I need some scale.”

“I thought there was a no alcohol rule?” I asked, cocking my head to the side. A teasing smile rose to my lips, though it was soft from the bliss heavy in my veins.

“There is. But I am the Halálhívó and the rules don’t apply to me.”

I scoffed and slipped off his lap. Typical.

Rokath went to one of the cases at the back of the room and returned with a cloth and a pitcher of water. “Sit, let me clean you.”

His tenderness melted my heart. So I did, only to remember that was exactly where he’d spilled his seed. A laugh burst from me. “Is that the first time you’ve come on your throne?”

“The first, though it will not be the last.” He crowded my back and reached around me to wipe it away. The heat emanating off of him was pure bliss. “Now that I know how much you like to scorn them. Devious little thing.”

He nudged me forward and I finally sat, allowing him to wipe my release from my sensitive center. When he finished, we dressed quickly. From that same case, he pulled a flask and tucked it into his pocket. Then he held his hand to me. “Come, and I will tell you everything.”

I threaded my fingers through his, savoring the rough callouses that brushed against my flesh. Everything with Rokath was…right. The darkness between us. The pain. The trauma. All of it was woven by the Fates, not to break us, but to bind us. So we could bleed, burn, and defend when the other needed it most.

All Rokath had to do now was surrender his hard-won throne and let me in.

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9

Dragging the chair to the table felt like hauling an executioner’s block into place, a grim prelude to the conversation long overdue. Assyria sat across from me, those devious burgundy eyes I’d fallen helplessly in love with studying me with an emotion I’d scarcely ever welcomed—concern. Yet from her, from my mate…I’d take it all.

The wood creaked as I settled into it, thumping a cup and the metal flask against the smooth top of the table. Fuck, this conversation wasn’t going to be easy. Centuries of repressed feelings didn’t merely want to claw up my throat and out of my mouth, even to my mate.

That was where the scale came in. The amber liquid splashed as I poured myself a double dose. I wasted no time throwing it back. The spicy alcohol burned all the way to my stomach before settling there. Not that the organ itself was settled; no, it churned like an angry sea.

Grem sidled up to me and plopped his head in my lap, looking up at me with his piercing red eyes. I pet his soft black fur, letting it ground me along with the scale. Assyria reached across the table and squeezed my forearm. Her small fingers brushed over a tattoo of thorns and roses wrapped around a skull, and then she retreated.

Since returning, we’d changed clothes—her, to one of my tunics that swam to her knees, me to a loose pair of pants I’d swiped from Rapp. The rest of our belongings were lost to the camp we abandoned.

I’ll hire a clothier when we arrive in Fured to craft us both proper attire again.

Assyria pointedly cleared her throat, drawing my attention away from my thoughts. “You can procrastinate all you want, but you will tell me.” Her tone was firm, yet gentle.

I exhaled, counting to ten and focusing on the feel of my chest deflating. Almost unconsciously, I rubbed my pectorals right over my heart. Grem didn’t move from his position as I poured myself another drink. As I tipped it back, Assyria commented, “That stuff is disgusting. I don’t know how you drink it.”

The glass smacked against the table as I set it down again. “And how would you know, little imposter?”

She snorted and rolled her eyes. “I drank that bottle you had hidden away in your room at Gyor Palace.”

“Of course you did,” I grumbled, swishing the flask. It was almost empty; not nearly enough to get me through the next hour or so of my life. It would take time to tell her everything, for there was so much, and honestly, I didn’t know where to begin.

Her hand once again closed the gap between us. “Just start talking. Whatever comes to mind first. No need to remember what I do and don’t know. Honestly, I could use a refresher anyway.”

Not meeting her piercing gaze, I traced the rim of the cup. “My father was the brother of the last Kral. The middle brother at that. He always felt forgotten, like he didn’t have a place in the world. He took his perceived shortcomings out on me. Not that either of his brothers were any less cruel.”

“What about your mother?” she asked after a moment of pause from me.

“Died giving birth to me,” I muttered. I never knew her, and my father didn’t speak much of her. Nor did he ever remarry. For the longest time, I couldn’t decide if it was because he loved her so much or because he hated her. That had been a constant theme in my life: the contrast between hate and love, two sides of the same emotion. For one could not exist without the other. The depths of my feelings for Assyria were a testament to that.

“I’m so sorry, Rokath,” she murmured, squeezing tighter.

Finally, I met her gaze. “That is nothing compared to what happened in my youth.”

Assyria’s burgundy eyes shone, and she nodded, a silent understanding.

I looked at the ceiling, trying to find the words to tell her exactly how much of an asshole my father was. What he made me do.

“Xannirin and I went to Fured, to the military academy, young. The former Kral was harsh with Xannirin too. I always tried to protect him from the worst of it. At least at the academy, I thought we might have a modicum of freedom.”

With a sigh, I shook my head. “I was wrong.”

A chill settled over me like the fog that rolled off the coast in the early mornings. The sensation and memory were enough to paint vivid images of my wrongdoings in my mind. “The Kral and my father made frequent visits to Fured to check on us. My father more often, though. He was harder on me than any of the drilling trainers. All of whom bowed to him and allowed him free reign while he was in residence. He wanted me to rise the ranks in the army, to become someone important since he was nothing. When I’d fuck up, he’d take me into his quarters and beat me. Break my ribs, my nose, my fingers.”

Assyria sucked in a sharp breath. She’d spoken of her husband—the one she’d killed and impersonated until the moment our mate bond snapped in place—and the horrors he’d inflicted. Those words had flayed me open during our first meeting, triggering a visceral response. One that wasn’t solely because she was my mate. Those protective instincts flared, yes, but so too did my own trauma.

For centuries, I’d been running from the memories that haunted my dreams. I’d forged myself into the Halálhívó, the cold, merciless, feared leader of the Demon army, because I could protect others better than I’d protected myself. I’d donned a mask to hide myself from the world too after Xannirin, Kiira, and I decided that we would become Fates that walked the earth.