King Slavic’s cruel taunts reverberate in my skull, amplifying the dread knotting my stomach. His icy eyes and long cold fingers around my throat are the embodiment of my darkest nightmares.
“This will keep you docile,” he sneered, brandishing the syringe that held our captivity within its clear contents.
In a torturous loop, I have watched his minions administer the damning drug, their faces cold and detached. The sickening sight of the needle sliding under Lyon’s and Zeke’s skin. The agonizingly slow push of the plunger releasing its payload into their veins. Each time the memory flashes behind my eyes, I grind my teeth against the searing anger, balling my fists until my nails dig into my palms.
However, as the van doors close and we leave Bloodtaric, a spark of realization kindles within me. The drug’s effects seem to recede quicker than before. Is my surging anger stoking the flames of my metabolism and purging the drug from my system?
An unexpected wave of adrenaline ripples through me, sweeping away the fog clouding my mind and honing my senses. Once again, the van takes off, the motion making me queasy.
I have no idea what is going on, but we left Regan’s kingdom in a hurry when they finally realized that Regan is no longer tied to me. Slavic ordered his men back to his kingdom, where I watched them continuously drug my mates and load the van full of supplies.
King Slavic is running, that much I am sure of. Something has him spooked, and there is no doubt in my mind that what has scared him into retreat is Regan. Wrath.
The jarring halt of the van yanks me from my thoughts. I brace against the abrupt stop, straining to decipher the hushed voices and the shuffle of restless feet. The van door flies open, and a hot stream of sunlight scorches my eyes, followed by a biting wind. I squint to make out the figures standing outside, but all I can make out is the tall shadow of a man with a gun in his hand.
I can feel my heart beating faster and faster, and every molecule in my body screams for me to run, but I know that it would be futile. With a sigh of dread, I resign myself to my fate. One that looks grim right now.
Someone grabs my arm roughly and yanks me closer to the open door just as the other van door groans open, unveiling a desolate landscape that stretches into oblivion. Mountains stand tall against the morning sky, their peaks shrouded by a veil of mist and fog.
Rough hands yank me to my feet and propel me out of the van. I stumble over the uneven terrain, the biting wind slicing through me, causing involuntary shivers to course down my spine.
Tumbling onto the unforgiving rocky ground, I taste the tang of blood in my mouth as my body scrapes against the sharp stones. The pain is immediate, stinging my hands and knees, but it’s only a whisper compared to the gnawing fear that I feel for Zeke and Lyon. Before I can regain my footing, a horrifying sight arrests me.
In the distance, a couple of henchmen drag Malachi’s limp, bloody body toward a roller door embedded in the side of the mountain. His skin, pale as death itself, is smeared with dirt and blood. The agony etched on his face, the brutal wounds and bruises marring his skin, sends my heart lurching.
“No,” the plea escapes from my lips, barely a whisper stolen by the ruthless wind. It’s a futile attempt, devoured by the crushing emptiness around me. The roller door groans open, consuming Malachi into its monstrous abyss.
The image of him disappearing into the dark void within the mountain is the last I witness before the door grinds shut, leaving me stranded amid this desolate wasteland.
When I am shoved violently, I land face down in the dirt. Shaking my head, I glare over my shoulder to see King Slavic. “How . . . How can she move? I thought I told you to make sure they are drugged so she’s kept weak.” Slavic’s question cuts through the icy air, his bewilderment laced with suspicion as I get to my hands and knees, peering around. His eyes, colder than the mountain winds, drill into me as though seeking answers that I’m not ready to give.
“Your Majesty,” one of the guards pipes up, an uncertain note in his voice that feeds my growing satisfaction. “It seems the mandrake root is waning on her. It held Zeke and Lyon, but it’s like her bond has built up a tolerance,” a nearby guard answers the king.
The humor of the man’s words bubbles up in my chest, catching me off guard. The words spill out of my mouth, laced with scornful laughter. “Is that fear I detect, Slavic?” I taunt, savoring the fleeting surprise etched on his face.
Chapter Forty
“On your feet, witch!” The grating command of King Slavic slices through the silence. Straining, I lift my gaze, locking eyes with the merciless figure towering over me.
It may be my birthday in a few days, but my shift is nearer than they think. It’s a full moon tomorrow night; I am only growing stronger with that urge that has left my bones aching and my gums throbbing. It’s like an electric current slithering under my skin, awakening every nerve, awakening a power embedded in my DNA from the Fates themselves, and along with the moon comes my lycan side.
“Fear looks good on you, Slavic,” I taunt, my eyes flashing defiantly.
“Hmm, yet nobody wears it better than you, dear,” he sneers. Just as another van’s engine roars and comes into view, shattering the tense silence that came with my words.
The van pulls up beside the one I was cruelly ripped from. My heart drops into my stomach as the doors fly open, revealing the rest of my coven, their bodies limp and defeated, bruised and bloodied. Each of them is dragged out unceremoniously, their lifeless forms a cruel show of Slavic’s ruthlessness.
Dread and desperation claw at me, witnessing them being manhandled like worthless objects, dragged into the mountain’s ominous maw.
“You asshole!” A snarl rips through me as I spring to my feet, driven by an instinctive need to protect my own. As I stumble forward, Slavic’s cold grasp tugs my hair, pulling my head back abruptly. A fresh wave of pain blooms along my scalp, but I refuse to show him the satisfaction of my agony.
“If you don’t cooperate,” he threatens, his voice barely above a whisper, “I’ll start with them, Zirah.” His threat, as terrifying as it is, isn’t what shakes me. It’s the absolute conviction in his voice, the promise of pain, that sets my blood boiling.
He would make their deaths torturous. Anger bubbles within me. Anger and anticipation.
The full moon is tomorrow, and already its power surges within me, instinctively, making me stronger, more powerful. My lycan side is eager for the freedom the lunar cycle promises, and with that strength comes a flicker of hope. We just need to remain alive until the full moon is at its highest point tomorrow.
For now, I must play the obedient captive. I force the rage back, plastering a false smile onto my face. I meet Slavic’s icy gaze with my own fiery one, pouring every ounce of my defiance into my words. “We’ll see who breaks first, Slavic,” I sneer, my voice steady despite the turmoil raging within me.
