Chapter 3 #2
“A word of advice?” Basten says tightly, baring his teeth at my father. “A thousand years from now, at the next Awakening, maybe give a word of fucking warning before stabbing your daughter.”
Vale huffs in mild amusement, as though even as a human king, Basten is as simple-minded as a lapdog.
Vale turns to me, instead—his focus always circling back on me, like orbiting planets.
“You are immortal, Sabine. Nothing can permanently maim you. Not even Woudix himself is capable of harvesting a fae’s soul for his underrealm.
The sooner you shed your former human habits, the more easily you’ll embrace your powers and your memories.
What happened at the Garden of Ten Gods was a showcase of your raw, untamed fey.
You’ll need to harness it. To tame it. To remember how to bend your power to your will until every human before you cowers. ”
Beside me, Basten rolls back his shoulders, tense for battle.
A trace of a smirk twists Vale’s cheek as he faces Basten, looking him slowly up and down. He wrinkles his nose at what he sees. “You preferred her in her human form, didn’t you?”
Basten presses his hands together, drawing in a tight breath.
“Listen close, King of Fae. I don’t give a fuck about your fae-human squabbles.
I don’t kneel to gods, and I sure as hell don’t kneel to men.
The only king I ever bent a knee to fucking burned me for it.
So hear me now: the only loyalty left in my bones is to the woman at my side. ”
A thread of warmth finds its way into my cold center, and I toy with the twine ring on my fourth finger that Basten gave me, wishing for an instant it was only the two of us.
That the bed’s canopy of sewn fabric leaves was real, that the rugs underfoot were swishing grass, that the window was open to the stars.
Like our early days together.
“She isn’t yours, human,” Vale growls.
“I am his, and he is mine,” I interject before Basten can answer. A clap of anger beats alongside my heart. Outside, thunder suddenly cracks, though there’s no sign of a storm. “You could stab me in a thousand places, and each one will bleed for him.”
Wind rattles the window panes, sending a tree branch outside snapping at the glass.
“Easy, wildcat.” Basten’s steady voice in my ear calms the storm inside me.
I blink, swallowing back my anger, and the wind outside dies down.
Basten drapes his arm around my waist, low and intimate.
“Try to tear us apart again, Vale, and you’ll see history repeat itself in blood.
Sabine and I are a package deal. I’m the one who got her through the Gloaming at the Garden of Ten Gods.
Not you. Not Artain. Not fucking Iyre. Sabine drank my blood, carved her need into my skin, broke her pleasure on my cock.
That bond isn’t something you can break. ”
I preen with pride, leaning into his promises.
Vale plucks a piece of dust off his shirt, unbothered. “To what length would you go for her?”
Basten’s back jerks upright. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“Any length.” His fingers curve possessively around my hipbone, pulling me closer. “Isn’t that clear?”
“Would you give all your blood?”
There’s a catch in his voice—a trap. My stomach pulls in tight, and immediately, I think of how Basten found Paz’s pale, dead body in Iyre’s cabinet. Drained of memories, prayers, and most of all, blood.
“She’ll need a mortal acolyte.” Vale rubs his fingers, lets the imaginary dust fall to the ground. “I suppose that’s one thing you could be useful for.”
A warning beat picks up in my chest, but as soon as I turn toward Basten, he cups my jaw and says without hesitation, “I’ll be whatever she needs—it isn’t even a question. Wildcat, you know I exist to serve you. I’ll be your acolyte. Companion. Worshipper.”
I grab his shirt collar, the metal buttons cutting into my palm. “No. You’re a king, not a throat just waiting to be opened.”
He snorts as though I’ve made a joke. “Look, I don’t want to agree with your father on anything, but he’s right in this. You need someone to satiate you. Breathe, blood, sex, worship, prayer. You think I’d let any other man on this earth give that to you, instead of me?”
I open my mouth to protest, but the rush of words poised on my tongue fades. I close my mouth and swallow hard. Like it or not, I have to admit he has a point. I don’t want to need that from someone. But even now, the hunger is returning to my core, hot and demanding.
“You’re sure?” I ask.
He laughs softly—leaving no room for doubt.
My breath catches, unsure how to find the words to tell him what this means to me. I’m about to lean in to kiss him instead when Vale’s heavy voice cuts the moment. “It isn’t quite that simple.”
My mouth goes dry. “What do you mean?”
“It’s a commitment to become an acolyte. A lifelong commitment.”
The tone in Vale’s voice sends prickles running down my limbs over the now-hidden fey lines, and I smooth a hand over my forearm, a wrinkle forming on my brow.
“Not a problem,” Basten responds easily.
“Wait,” I say with a hitch in my voice, as the hidden lines resting just below my skin burn colder. “What do you mean, Father?”
Vale saunters to my dressing table. His fingers close around a small, sharp pair of embroidery scissors.
I suck in a breath, stepping in front of Basten and stretching out my arms. A crackle creeps over the room’s windows, where frost crystals have suddenly spread like a defensive barricade.
“Ease your fears, Daughter.” Vale turns on us with the tiny, decorated brass scissors dwarfed by his massive palm.
Really, it’s only a seamstress’s tool—hardly the Serpent Knife. Still, in Vale’s hand, even a maid’s implement feels like it could be an executioner’s axe.
“When I say lifelong,” he says slowly, “I do not mean twenty or forty or sixty more years. Acolytes’ average lifespans, once they commit, is counted in months. None have lasted a full year. Our fae needs are too great; and once we get a taste for blood, it only gets harder to stop.”
I shake my head fiercely. “I wouldn’t do that. I’d stop before I took his life.”
“You say that now,” Vale explains in stark, matter-of-fact words. “When you are still deeply connected to your humanity. The longer you’re fae, the less you will care about preserving his life.”
“But you swore a fae bargain that Basten would be safe.”
“While he resides in Volkany, yes. His safe from me. Not from you.”
My stomach hollows out.
To my surprise, Vale hands the scissors to me. “To become your acolyte, Lord Basten must freely drink of your blood.”
My lips part in soft uncertainty as I spin to face Basten, our bodies only inches apart, searching his velvet-brown eyes. “I would never hurt you, but if it’s too risky…”
His answer to my silent question is to cup my face, grazing his rough thumb over my cheek. He murmurs, “You and me, little violet. How many times have we defied the odds? We can with this, too.”
A thread pulls taut in my stomach, and my fingers curl over the scissors. “No—I’ll find another acolyte.”
But as soon as I speak the words, I know they’re false.
In good conscious, I can’t lay a death sentence on any strangers who worship at my alter.
Besides, every fiber in my body loves and wants to protect Basten.
Maybe, with a stranger, I’d go too far—but with Basten, I’ll always be able to control myself.
The cold under my skin burns harder, and I can almost remember something. The shadows of people on their knees, backs bent in prayer. Primitive robes fastened around their waists with twine. Chants pour out in a long-lost language.
I’ve done this before—Basten isn’t my first acolyte.
“Gods, Sabine. What are you waiting for? There’s nothing to debate.” Before I can stop him, Basten steals the scissors from me, takes my hand in his forcefully, and jabs the needle-fine point in my index finger.
I flinch more with surprise than pain.
A tiny drop of red blood wells, but right behind it rises a bead of pure silver. Stronger, pushing out the old remnants of my human blood.
My heart hammers so damn hard I can practically feel the bedposts shake with it. I flinch with the urge to pull my hand free—but then relent.
What choice do we have? Better it be Basten, and our own choice, than whatever tricks the fae may think of next.
Slowly, I nod.
Basten lowers his mouth to my finger, taking the full length in his mouth.
He sucks gently in a way that stirs something deep and hot in my belly.
Pleasure flows from the sensation of Basten’s lips on me.
It makes me acutely aware of the fact that my father is three paces away, staring at my blazing red cheeks.
This act shouldn’t be sexual, but gods, it’s close.
Basten sits up, dragging his tongue over his bottom lip to lap up any silver remnants, and for a second, the room is so quiet I can hear all three of our breaths. I wait, unsure what I should be experiencing. But Basten and I are already bound by something stronger than blood—by choice.
“It’s done,” Vale says. “Daughter, your only task now is to survive the next few days, until the fever of the Gloaming breaks.” His eyes shift to Basten, the corner of his mouth curling with disdain. “Keep her alive—then, we’ll see how long you can manage to keep yourself out of the grave, too.”
Gods, that word clings to me like sweat.
The grave.
For the next week, I hardly leave my bed—not because I’m sick or weak, but the opposite.
My new body is intimidatingly strong—every step I take ripples in outward quakes.
If I so much as stand, pinecones clatter against the windows in sudden volleys.
Shutters burst open, curtains billowing.
This is no peaceful partnership with nature—it’s a battle raging between me and the elements.
And my hunger.