Chapter 11
T he throne room stirs with anger.
But there’s something more too. A sensation so sticky it clings to the ornate walls of the Great Hall, a fetid odor that smolders in my nose.
Jealousy.
The room is charged with it. A sea caught in a storm, a current of envy and disdain rocking through it in tumultuous waves. Sin wears a mask of calm collectedness, a smirk I desperately wanted to punch off his face just months ago. The Black Art sits in his throne with knees spread, the very embodiment of a lion lounging in his domain.
I study him from my perch next to his. Not quite a throne, but an elegant seat nonetheless with an intricate gold metal framework similar to Sin’s, and a matching vermillion cushion, but it will soon be replaced with a throne that is all my own.
I met with one of the blacksmiths this morning, Sin having already summoned Harold to wait for us outside the Hall this morning. The two seemed well-acquainted, and I sensed none of the hostility coming from the smith that I did from several others we’ve interacted with. The only questions Harold asked were which jewels I preferred, and if I wanted the metal frame to be molded to resemble flowers or leaves.
Flowers, of course. Hyacinths to be specific.
His fingers drum the arms of his throne. Something that may be perceived as boredom to anyone else, but I’ve studied Sin long enough to learn his tells.
The Black Art is nervous.
Despite the cruel indifference he projects—the mask he must wear and the role he must play—Sin doesn’t want to see his men fall before him. Especially not when he will be the one to give the order to bleed them, and that knowledge has me shifting in my seat.
Because just as I’ve learned the Black Art’s subtleties when it comes to his nerves, I also know his strengths.
Sin does not yield.
Not when it comes to power. And especially not when it comes to me.
Ileana dismisses the summoned officers, not granting them opportunity to voice any grievances about her reinstating Sin as the Black Art. She does not wear her crown today, despite me overhearing Sin telling her that she could continue to do so if she wanted. She is the Black Hand after all, but her thick, black hair remains untouched by the diadem.
The officers file out of the room, several throwing lingering glances in Sin’s direction, and even longer ones in mine. Looks that coax a low growl from Sin’s chest, a sound that sends chills all the way to my toes. Their sneers are promptly cut off as a few of the elves stationed around the room urge them out of the Hall.
I don’t blame them for being wary. The castle is packed with elves, and they are now forced to follow orders from three types of beasts they’ve been conditioned to fear. But without our interference in the battle of Blackreach, the kingdom would have succumbed to the Torin and Langston forces in only a couple of days. Whether they wish to openly admit it or not, that has earned us favor with them.
An elven male, clad all in leather down to his laced gauntlets, saunters into the room, pausing several feet from the dais. “We’ve recovered the head of the Langston force. Commander Fionnlagh is escorting them here now,” he informs with a tip of his head.
“And what of the rest?” Sin queries.
“The waterways are secure. The Langston vessels are anchored, and we’ve sent supplies out to sustain our people while they continue to hold ground.”
“Can we spare a ship to retrieve more from the Vale?”
“Yes. We were waiting on your order.”
“Now you have it. We may need to get creative to make enough room, but we will make it. Any of your people that wish to sail this way will be accommodated. Make as many trips as is required, but make them with haste, and make sure Wren’s family is on the first voyage.”
“Understood.”
Footsteps sound from just outside the Hall, and I straighten, knowing they must belong to Vox.
Sin leans back, propping one foot across his knee, and placing a hand to the side of his face. Assuming the role of the bored king as the commander steps into the throne room, yanking the leader of the Langston army forth by the elbow.
The room goes silent, so silent , that even the most human of ears would hear as my breath catches. Because the person at Vox’s side is not who any of us were expecting.
I look to Sin and note the gleam of something curious in his eyes before he forces his shoulders to lower. And then in a voice like poison, he addresses our hostage.
“Hello, Lady Langston.”
Lady Langston is far from a normal prisoner. Fear would have a normal prisoner’s face blanched and their skin slick with sweat. They might fall to their knees before the Black Art, pleas for mercy spilling from their lips.
Lady Langston does none of those things. Her cheeks are flushed a deep, rosy pink, and lines split her brow as flames blaze in her golden-brown eyes. She is every bit wrath incarnate, except for her mouth. Her lips are pressed into a hard line, one side slightly raised as if she tried plastering a sneer there but couldn’t quite commit. I’ve spent a lifetime studying others, cataloging their expressions and movements, learning which grins were playful, and which ones meant they suspected something was off about me. As if they looked into my eyes and saw the bloodwitch staring back at them.
It was always their lips that gave away their thoughts.
Just as it is Lady Langston’s mouth that betrays her fear. But it isn’t Sin that frightens her.
No. It is me that Lady Langston cannot look away from.
I smile at her. She balks at me.
“You’re not who I was expecting,” Sin says in a voice smoother than silk. Drum, drum, drum go his fingers on the throne. “Is Sterling really such a coward that he’d send his female to lead his war in his stead? Or is he trying to whore you out to me in exchange for leniency?”
I know Sin only makes the comment to vex her, but that knowledge does nothing to numb the burn in my fingertips when he does. I strong-arm my collective before it births flames in my palms, but I note how Sin adjusts to angle himself towards me. Observant, the Black Art is.
She snickers but doesn’t dare look away from me when she replies, “As if I’d ever lie with a beast.”
“As if I’d ever lie with a Langston whore.”
“Your hypocrisy precedes you, Your Grace, ” she muddies his title, glancing at him. “Shifting into the very monsters whose deaths you sanctioned, and now pretending that whores aren’t precisely your type.” Her eyes flit to me again.
I don’t give Sin time to respond. I cross one leg over the other, allowing the slit of my dress to split across my thigh to reveal the gleam of the dagger strapped there. “If this is your way of propositioning yourself to me, Lady Langston, I’m afraid I must decline. I’m—what’s the word—oh yes. Full. ” The smile I force is pure teeth, and she recoils before she can school her features back to stone.
“Heretic,” she spits.
“Perhaps.” I shrug a shoulder and adjust the folds of my purple dress where the fabric clings to my hips. Ileana made sure one of the closets in Sin’s bedchamber was promptly stocked with dresses of my size yesterday afternoon. I’ll need to have some tailored to my exact measurements, but I am rather fond of how this one drapes across my curves as if every peak and valley of my body were stars in a sky of amethyst.
“Why are you here, Marisa?” Sin interjects, bitterness bleeding into his feigned boredom.
“Because she is.” Lady Langston—Marisa—jabs a finger in my direction, the manacles rattling on her wrists. “Because she lives, and my son does not. Murderer. HERETIC!” she shrieks.
She thinks I killed Bennett? “Your son was a rapist,” Sin growls.
Marisa jerks her head to look at Sin. “My son. Is dead,” she says, enunciating each word slowly. “Your whore saw to that.”
“You will refer to her by her station, or you will not have a tongue to speak with at all. My consort did not kill Bennett,” he says, then adding darkly, “I did.”
“Oh, I’m well aware of that too, Your Grace. We had to stitch his neck before we laid him to rest at his pyre, his poor throat ripped out by the jaws of an animal ! I washed the blood from my son’s body with my own two hands. I suppose I can hardly fault you for not being able to fathom such a pain considering your own mother deemed you unworthy of such a love.”
I hiss, spearing Marisa with a glare. “ Careful , Lady Langston.”
“Bennett thought so highly of you too,” she continues, voice lower now and tears turning her eyes glassy. “He would have forgiven you; he’d understand the witch’s hold was too great to break, even for someone of your strength.”
Sin unfolds his leg from his knee and leans forward, his elbows propped on his thighs and his hands dangling limp between his legs. Another forced position, but he does it so smoothly, portrays the arrogance so well. “Come now, Marisa. Witch’s hold? Your time is much too limited to speak in riddles.”
“You ought to be thanking me, Your Grace, that it was me that has come, and not Sterling. You don’t want to know the things he wished to do to you. Me—I’ve only come for the witch. But I see she’s still got her claws sunk deep into you, even now.”
A low chuckle, and Sin shakes his head, the movement slow and deliberate. “You think she’s indoctrinated me?”
“I know she has. It’s what they do. Her kind.”
I tuck a piece of loose hair behind my ear, my foot doing a light bounce in its strappy-heeled shoe. And here I sat, thinking I’ve heard all the rumors of my kind before, but apparently there are still more to be heard. Good—I was beginning to get bored with the lapse in creativity.
“We all about lost our heads when you went missing. Left to imagine all the horrid things she could be doing to you. Day after day, night after night, we had men out looking for you. All of us. Sterling, Dusaro. Hell, I even organized one of the search parties myself. And then when they found you in the Vale and saw what you really are…
“Protecting her, of all miserable creatures. Your father was so quick to say he didn’t know you were one of them, but how could he have not ? Then we realized it was that the white-haired witch had made you into her little puppet. Forcing you to do her bidding while she pulls your strings, sucking up the power your bloodshed brings her.”
Amusement washes through me, dark and facetious. Marisa has no idea how closely she described the beginning of Sin and my relationship but in reverse—when I was his prisoner. Sterling blames Dusaro for Bennett’s death. For allowing Sin to reign while shifter blood pumped through his veins, for allowing a bloodwitch to walk the halls of this castle, for allowing the poor, unsuspecting Langston boy to fall in lust with the white-haired witch who would soon become his ruination.
So, Sterling allied with the foreign king who already wanted me dead because he believed I murdered his father. With Baelliarah’s army and coin, they padded the Langston’s forces and tried to siege Scarwood for themselves. A plan that nearly worked.
“So yes, Your Grace, I’m well aware it was you who slaughtered my boy. Just as I know it was your blood slut that compelled you to do it.”
I glance to Sin and find his mask shredded to ribbons, revealing the true fury of the warlord. His gaze flicks to Vox, and he waves two fingers to order the commander to bring Marisa forward. He does, shoving Lady Langston to her knees so her head hovers inches from where Sin still sits in his throne.
“Listen very carefully, Marisa,” the Black Art purrs, his voice somehow soft and dark at once. “Bennett Langston was a rapist. He deserved every bit of suffering and every ounce of fear he felt. And let me be clear, Lady Langston, your son spent his final moments fucking terrified. If my Mate ever finds a way to use that beautiful, vicious magic of hers to bring him back, she will. And I will kill your son again. More brutally, more painfully, again and again and again. Not even my death will free him because I will continue to torture his very soul in Hell until time itself ceases to exist. Now bow. ” He coats his last word in poison.
The hand Vox twisted into her hair prevents Marisa from lifting anything but her gaze. “If you’re going to kill me, just do it,” she spits.
A low chuckle. “In due time, Lady Langston. But for now, you’re going to remain alive so your traitor husband may hear your screams.” Sin’s attention flits to the commander. “Have we located him?”
“He’s in Suncove. Fancied a big, luxurious manor near the docks with what remains of his army surrounding the estate. His two daughters are with him.”
“Leave my daughters out of this, you fucking wretch,” Marisa seethes, her eyes straining to remain locked on Sin.
“Send a ship to Suncove immediately. Retrieve Lord Langston and bring him to me at once. If he attempts to flee, fight, or do anything other than march himself onto our ship, kill him, and bring both of his daughters in his stead. But before you depart, ensure you enchant something with the Lady’s wails to bring along. How you force such sounds from her mouth is of no concern of mine. Though, there’s no telling he’ll even recognize what her screams sound like given I doubt Sterling Langston has ever managed to produce such sounds from his wife.”
“Understood,” Vox bites through gritted teeth as Marisa jerks forward in a fruitless attempt to dislodge his grip. His hands only tug her hair harder, and she winces.
A single tear leaks from her eye, and for a fleeting moment, a shadow of true horror eclipses her face, her facade fading with the mention of her daughters. And for the briefest of seconds, a shadow of sympathy moves across my heart.
Then she opens her mouth.
“I do not bow to mutts .”
Chaos explodes inside me. The last of my self-restraint shattering, and my power rushes forth like tar in my veins. I’m on my feet at once, black-licked flames roaring to life in my hands as I lean over Lady Langston. Sweat instantly beads across her forehead and streaks down her flushed cheeks in lazy rivers.
“You will bow before him, or you will lay dead before him in a puddle of your own piss and blood. Choose carefully, Lady Langston. I’m in no mood to ask a second time.”
Vox looks to Sin in my periphery, and I sense the uncertainty in the commander. Unsure if he should stop me. Whatever Sin does behind me, it gets Vox to swallow once and return his attention to us.
Lady Langston peels her eyes away from mine to take in the onyx-tipped flames in my hands, flickering wildly just beneath the tips of her golden hair. Such pretty, flammable hair.
She sinks forward. I nod to Vox, and he releases his hold on her.
“Lower,” I demand.
She hisses something too low for me to hear, but she leans forward, propping herself on her elbows and looking at the floor.
I tap the stone directly in front of her with the toe of my heeled shoe. “ Lower. ”
She presses her forehead to the chilled ground.
I extinguish my flames and pin my hands behind my waist, taking an extra moment to admire the view of Marisa before me. The woman who did not deny that her son tried to rape me while continuing to preach about his gentle heart.
Marisa has lived a life of fine luxury—content to use Langston coin to further her discrimination against transcendent-kind while she dabbed herself with the finest powders, secured her hair with crystal pins, and soaked muscles that never endured a day of manual labor in oil embellished baths.
She would look so lovely face-down in one.
I give her my back to face the Black Art. I find him watching me intensely, his eyes darkening with thoughts as sinful as his name. A hand moves to lazily rub the underside of his jaw, and he tracks my every step back to my seat. And even then, his attention lingers a moment longer, drinking me in before he tears his attention back to the traitor who now bows before him.
“Now that we’ve gotten our pleasantries out of the way—tell me, Marisa—what is King Torin’s plan now that his men have so miserably failed in their mission?”
He nods to Vox who then draws his sword and places the tip of it against her protruding spine. She flattens further instinctively.
“You’ll have to ask him yourself,” she breathes, the sound throaty and dry. “There’s a mirror on my ship.”
“You intend to tell me that the king of a nation that detests magic is communicating with you by scrying? ”
“He has a mage,” she says.
Sin glances to Vox. “Have your men retrieve the mirror.”
“He wants the bloodwitch,” Marisa continues.
I pull my shoulders back and resist the urge to bare my teeth. I’ve frightened the lady enough for one day, and we don’t want her heart giving out before we take everything we need from her.
“Don’t tell me that the mundane king doesn’t trust his mundane soldiers to kill the bloodwitch themselves,” Sin chastises.
“Torin will rip the realm apart to get to her. He and his father have long been preparing to invade the isle since the last war. We were trying to protect our people by keeping the fight isolated to Blackreach.”
“Do not claim them as your people when you sold them out to a foreign king.” Sin’s lips pull back as he speaks, and his fingers glide across the arms of his throne again, this time leaving behind deep grooves where his claws rake across the burnished metal.
“It will not matter whose people they are when the entire isle is burning. Give Torin the witch, or his wrath will get us all killed.”
Sin chortles, the sound a low and graveled thing. “Get her out of my sight. She doesn’t deserve to breathe the same air as my beloved witch. ”
Vox pulls Marisa to her feet and steers her out of the room.
“You’ll damn us all, Singard!” She cranes her neck to call over her shoulder. “Get us all killed for a heretic! HERET—” her voice is promptly silenced as Vox forces her out of the Hall, and the doors are closed behind them.
Ileana steps around from the side of the dais to stand before Sin. She has been so quiet during the interaction that I’d forgotten the Hand was here at all. “Is there anything else I can do for you now, Your Grace?”
“You can get everyone out of this room so I may be alone with my intended.”
She slips into a curtsy, then steps in front of me and mirrors the action. Ileana holds my stare for an extended beat before turning and barking orders for the rest of the room to vacate. They follow her word at once. I smile to myself, at the sight of the elves obeying the word of a mundane woman. Ileana was born to rule.
The last of the elves take their leave, and Sin flicks his wrist, a cacophony of locks sliding into place. When I look at him, it’s his beast that stares back at me.
I’m in his lap a second later.
Our mouths crash together in a war entirely their own, a battle of tongues and teeth and spit. He grips the back of my neck while his other hand trails down the column of my neck, his claws skimming the bare skin of my chest.
There is nothing gentle about the Black Art’s touch as he devours me, his kiss hungry and deep and raw. The hand on my chest moves to grab my hip, and I arch against him. My hands rake down his front, my fingers fumbling to undo the clasps of his surcoat and the ties of his shirt beneath it, until I finally split the fabric and reveal the smooth brown skin beneath.
A sigh falls from my lips as I take in the muscles that had been hidden under too many layers, and holding his stare, I grind against the hard, thick length prodding my backside. Sin groans, the sound dampening my thighs, and I rock against him again.
Both his hands fly to my bodice, and he yanks the top of it down without bothering to unstring the laces. My breasts spill out over the silk, and he guides one into his mouth immediately. His tongue flicks against my nipple, coaxing it into a tight bud, while his other hand clamps onto my thigh. His tenderness from yesterday is now a distant memory as his calloused fingers dig into my leg.
He finds the slit of my dress and hikes it up so the fabric bunches around my waist. My hands twist into his hair, and a startled yelp falls from my lips as he takes my nipple between his teeth. Sin pauses at my cry, a silent question, and I yank his hair harder, a silent command.
The Black Art obeys.
He works my nipple with his teeth—biting—then lapping the hurt away with his tongue. The tongue that is rougher now, coarser. Distinctly feline . I moan as his fingers brush aside my underwear, and he breaks our kiss to look at my cunt, now bare and glistening with need.
“Power suits you,” he breathes, gliding a finger through my slick. His thumb presses into my clit, and I growl as I shove myself off him, knowing I won’t be able to take any more of that. I’ve not yet forgiven him for that night on the ship when Sin refused to allow me to touch him after he worshiped me on his knees like my pussy was his chosen patron.
I lock his stare as I kneel before him. Reaching to twirl a piece of my hair between his fingers, something wicked glints in his eyes as he beholds me on my knees. “How am I supposed to take care of you from down there?” His tone is underlined in tease, but it’s reserved. Guarded .
I don’t like it.
He’s still trying to deny the pleasure I so desperately want to give him.
“I was furious with you the other day,” I say. “I still am.”
Sin cocks an eyebrow and leans back in his throne, his legs spreading farther with the adjustment. “You’re awfully wet for someone claiming to be furious with me.”
I reach for his trousers and promptly undo the ties while he watches. He makes no move to assist me, but there is no disguising the hunger in his eyes as he stares down at me, and fucking hell, it should be criminal for any man’s gaze to hold that much fucking power. “And what is it I’ve done this time to spark my little witch’s temper?”
“The other night when you left. On the boat.”
“After you made the most delicious mess on my face—yes, I remember.”
I narrow my eyes as I release the final ties of his trousers. “When you left before I could return the favor.”
“Tasting you is not a favor —it is a delicacy, and a privilege. And it’s certainly not something I do because I’m expecting anything in return.”
“I know that, and this isn’t about you. It’s about me, and the pleasure you denied me by not allowing me to do what I wanted.”
He tilts his head, a shadow of amusement lifting one side of his mouth. I hone in on those delicious brown lips, remembering how they tasted when they were seasoned with my arousal. “And what exactly is it you wanted to do?”
I tug on his pants, releasing his cock from its prison. My mouth pops open at how thick and hard he already is, liquid arousal beading across his slit. Then my eyes snap back to his.
“You wish to take me as your Mate, Your Grace?”
“You know that I do.” His tone is even more guarded now, and delight spreads through me as I watch him slowly lose his resolve.
“Well, I have a stipulation.”
“You’ve already agreed.”
“I can change my mind.”
He blows out a breath, and my lips twitch at how frustrated his desire is making him. His fingers begin drumming the throne again, but this time, the action is rooted in impatience. “Out with it, then.”
I straighten my shoulders, not ignorant to how the movement pushes my breasts out. Neither is Sin, whose stare drops to drink them in, and a low groan from somewhere deep in his chest has my nipples tightening painfully. “You should know that it is with great reverence I will accept the honor of being your Mate. And as your Mate, I intend to always leave you thoroughly and irrefutably satisfied. It is not that I think it is something expected of me, but I happen to enjoy sex, and especially with you.”
His growl cuts me off. “ Only with me.”
I shrug a shoulder. “I suppose that depends on you, doesn’t it?”
I can’t bite back my smile as his expression darkens. My mouth waters, tasting Sin’s rage as if his need to claim me were honey on my tongue. His fingers stop drumming, and his legs part around me wider still. I coaxed the exact reaction I wanted from him, and he knows it.
He flicks his tongue across the front of his teeth, which are now lengthened into lethal points. “What is it you want from me?” he asks, his voice almost hoarse.
I take him into my hand, and his jaw clenches. “I want you to order me to suck your cock. Demand that I take you into my mouth until you’re coming down my throat, because you are mine, and I am yours. And with equal station comes equal pleasure.”
I tighten my grip and give him a slow stroke, painfully slow , and the masculine groan it pulls from him soaks my pussy. And then he leans forward and grips my chin, tugging my head back to look at him. Forcing me to see how my taunting has provoked his beast to the point it gnashes in his eyes, desperate to sink its teeth into my collar and Mark me permanently.
“I was right about you before,” he says, voice low. “You are a filthy, little bloodwitch with a filthy, little mouth.” Veins dilate in his chest and forearms, and his pulse thrums wildly in the pressure point of his neck. “You want to be my equal? Prove it. Take my cock into that filthy mouth and milk me down your throat like a good, little Mate.”
He doesn’t give me a choice.
Dropping my chin to grab the back of my hair, he pushes my head down, forcing his cock into my mouth. I accept him willingly, wrapping my lips around his length and taking him to the back of my throat.
Sin groans loudly as I work him with my tongue. His hand is still fisted in my hair, but he’s relaxed the pressure, allowing me to control the speed at which I take him. Because the Black Art’s cock is huge, and I’m already starting to gag around him, drool dripping over my jowls and down my chin.
I roll my eyes up to watch him watching me, and I moan around his dick. There’s torture in his eyes, and goddess fetch me for how much his suffering excites me. I chase my hand with my mouth, up and down, up and down, the sounds of his pleasure matching the rhythm of my bobs. My nipples peak to the point of pain, and my other hand winds around his calf, holding myself steady while I suck and suck and suck.
His breathing turns heavy, his bare chest rising and falling in erratic beats, and I let his cock fall from my mouth to drag my tongue from his balls to his pre-cum slickened tip.
“ Fuck, little witch,” he rasps. “This is how I know you’re meant to be mine.” He leans forward to grab my hair again, feeding his length down my throat, and tears spring from my eyes as I control my reflex to gag. “Only my Mate would have a mouth that takes my cock this fucking well.”
And then his fingers— his claws —twist into my hair, and he pumps his hips. Driving himself further and further into my throat, tears now staining my cheeks. “Fuck, you’re making me come, little witch.” Sin forces my mouth up and down, up and down, until his own rhapsodic grunts fill every corner of the room, his cock swelling impossibly thicker.
The Black Art comes hard. His claws scrape my scalp as he spills his seed deep into my mouth, varnishing my tongue in salty love. And then his other hand finds my throat, rubbing it from my chin to my trachea. “Now be a good wife and swallow all of me.”
I do as I’m told.
When he’s satisfied that I’ve drunk every last drop from him, he settles back into his throne, pulling me onto his lap. I rest my cheek against his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow, while he rakes his fingers through my hair. His other hand draws lazy circles across my back, and I moan softly.
He doesn’t know I needed that as much as he did. Tensions have been high since the attack on the Vale, and even more since the incident on the boat, when Sin had pinned me between the ship and his claws.
While I have forgiven Sin for the acts of savagery he committed against my sister and me, he certainly has not. The trust between us is new, raw still, and I sense the caution in his every move now. As cold and callous as the Black Art presents, Sin is terrified he’s going to wrong me again. That he will do something that I’ll never forgive him for, and I will slip from his life as quickly as his darkness seeped into my heart.
I ache seeing that worry in his eyes every time he looks at me. Which is always. Even when my attention is elsewhere, and my hands are occupied with other tasks, I feel him. Watching me. Waiting .
I just wish I knew what it is he waits for.