But before his response comes, my body answers without him. A flicker of energy jumps from my fingers, wild and uncontrolled. Small, barely a spark, but it leaps into Zepharion’s grip. His body goes rigid. The smile he offers the crowd falters, just slightly. A crack.
His head turns to me slow, snake-like. His lips curve darker. “What was that?” he murmurs, still smooth, but sharpened to a blade’s edge.
“I—I don’t know what you mean,” I breathe, feigning innocence, my heart pounding.
His eyes drop to my throat. The choker. The bind that should be gagging me silent. His grip tightens until my fingers go numb. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t have to. “Restrain them.”
The guards move instantly, black armor flashing in the stained-glass glow. I whirl just as Deimos is driven to his knees, a guard forcing his head down—but he growls, refusing to bow. Bastion roars, the demon inside flaring in shadow and steel. Cassiel’s silver eyes blaze like stars, righteous and terrible. But there are too many. Magic hums and snarls, runes flaring, shoving them back and binding them in place.
Zepharion chuckles, loud enough for the crowd. No longer playing at charm, only cruelty. “Let’s not ruin the moment,” he drawls. “Be good little boys… or I’ll end this union with a funeral.”
My hands shake—not with fear. With power. It rises beneath my skin, hot and wild, a hunger I’ve held back too long.
And then I see them.
The maids. The same ones who taunted me, who combed my hair until my scalp bled, who whispered promises of torment in my ear while forcing me into this dress. They stand to the side, smug, lips curved in satisfaction at my helplessness.
No. Not helpless.
Hungry. I let go of my restraint.
My power lashes outward, invisible but sharp as claws. It hooks into them before they realize it, threading into their cores, tugging. One gasps, clutching her throat. Another stiffens, eyes wide. The third staggers, mouth falling open in a sharp, helpless moan.
Their laughter dies on their lips, replaced by gasps that turn ragged, broken. Their bodies betray them, arching, trembling, writhing in the grip of pleasure I force through them. The sound of it—those strangled cries—echoes in the cavernous room, obscene and unstoppable.
The crowd shifts uncomfortably. Murmurs rise.
The maids can’t stop. They can’t contain it. Their knees buckle, their thighs quiver, their breaths break into whimpers. I tighten the thread and drink.
Their life force bleeds into me in surges of heat and sweetness, dark wine poured straight into my starving veins. I close my eyes and let it fill me, deeper, fuller, until the gnawing ache eases. Until I feel alive again.
One collapses to the marble, twitching. Another claws at her own skin, face wet with tears of ecstasy and terror. The last lets out one final shuddering cry before going limp, eyes glazed.
I release them. They crumple in a heap of silk and shame, drained husks in the middle of the ceremony. I stand straighter. Stronger. Fed.
The crowd is silent now. Zepharion stares at me, something sharp sparking behind his smile.
I meet his gaze, no longer lowering my eyes. That’s when I see it. The ceremonial blade.
Zepharion draws it with a flourish, the metal glinting coldly beneath the light. Its edge is etched with runes that throb with malevolence. He lifts it toward Deimos.
“Bring him.”
My breath catches as Deimos is dragged forward. Still snarling. Still trying to rise. Still fighting like a man who refuses to be caged.
Zepharion raises the knife above him, angled to strike.
He means to end our bond permanently.
I scream.
And through the scream, through the haze, another voice finds me. It’s not Deimos. It’s deeper. Older. Darker silk.
Raziel.
“Burn him from the inside out.”
EIGHTY
