Page 113 of Savage Throne
“But being a predator comes with responsibilities; you can’t be a monster to the people you love. That’s where most killers fail.”
“How do I do that?”
Song exhaled. “You have to compartmentalize. You kill when it’s necessary—when it’s a tool to achieve something greater. But you leave it behind when you step into the lives of the people who matter to you. You don’t bring it into your home. Never.”
“But what if it’s always there? What if it changes how they see me?”
Song’s eyes softened. “Itwillchange how they see you. But it doesn’t have to define you. You’re still Monique. You’re still a sister, a lover, a survivor with a big heart. Killing is just a part of you now, but it’s notallof you.”
Tension gathered in my shoulders.
I didn’t want to be like Leo and lose myself in the darkness.
I will never let this consume me.
I looked at Song. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Answering my questions and helping me.”
“You’re now officially the Mountain Mistress.” Although sitting, he gave me a small bow. “I now serve you.”
And then he let out a loud whistle.
What the fuck? Why did he do that? Who is he signaling?
Chapter eighteen
A Legacy of Blood
Moni
Before I could process what Song’s whistle meant, the tent’s entrance flap rustled, and five women rushed in.
They moved with ease and speed, yet there was an underlying tension between them that manifested in their avoidance of direct eye contact with me. Also, the air around them charged with nervous energy, making their movements jittery and uncertain.
They were all dressed in deep shimmering blue. Each carried a basket filled with an assortment of items—brushes, makeup palettes, and delicate shoes. The last two women both held this one gown that was so brilliant it looked like it was made of sparkling water.
Wow.
Fast, the women formed a line on the side of my bed and then bowed their heads.
And I didn’t have to guess that they were scared I could feel it. It was in the way their hands trembled when they set their baskets down, in the shallow, quick breaths they took, and in the way they kept glancing at Song for reassurance.
One of them, a young woman with soft tanned skin shivered as she stepped forward. Her head was still slightly bowed, but she forced herself to meet my gaze.
When she spoke, her voice shook, “Good afternoon, Mountain Mistress.”
I stared at her in shock.
“Y-your bath is ready. We c-can take you there.”
The others kept their heads low, and their shoulders curved inward like they were trying to make themselves smaller.
I’m not a monster.
Swallowing, I held up my hand. “Thank you and you can call me Monique—”
