Chapter 8
LEORA
The door to his chambers is heavy, a slab of iron-bound oak that should make me feel safe, but as I press my back against it, I feel only the vibration of the storm raging through the estate.
I do not light the candles. I cannot bear to see the opulence of this cage—the velvet drapes, the silver tapestries, the massive bed that smells of him. I slide down the wood until I hit the floor, pulling my knees to my chest.
My hands are shaking. Not a subtle tremor, but a violent, racking quake that rattles my teeth.
I look at them in the gloom. They look like the hands of a stranger. Pale, bony, stained with ink from his desk and the invisible residue of the magic I pushed out of my soul.
I saved him.
The thought tastes like bile. I saved the monster who promised to dissect me.
I saved the tyrant who keeps Rina broken and Asema on a leash.
When Malek’s power filled the dining hall, pressing down like a ceiling of lead, I didn't let Imas crumble.
I poured my own strength into the void where his soul should be.
And it felt... right.
That is the horror of it. It didn't feel like coercion. It felt like fitting a key into a lock.
Heavy footsteps thunder down the corridor. They are not the measured, predatory strides of Lord Imas. They are chaotic. Uneven.
I scramble up to my feet, backing away from the door just as it flies open.
It hits the stone wall with a crash that sounds like a gunshot.
Imas stands on the threshold. The hallway torches cast his shadow long and distorted across the carpet, a jagged specter stretching toward me. He has lost the icy composure he wore at the dinner table. His hair has escaped its severe tie, strands of platinum falling over his face. His chest heaves.
He looks my way, and his eyes are not violet. They are almost black, the pupils blown wide with an emotion that is too hot for hatred and too cold for passion.
He slams the door shut behind him and locks it.
"You," he breathes. The word is a curse.
He stalks into the room. He does not move with his usual liquid grace; he moves with the raw, jerky momentum of a man fighting his own limbs.
He reaches the heavy desk near the window—the place where he spent the last two weeks plotting his political maneuvers in the silence I provided. He stares at it for a second, his hands twitching at his sides.
Suddenly, he explodes.
With a roar that sounds torn from a raw throat, he sweeps his arm across the surface.
Scrolls, inkwells, and heavy crystal paperweights go flying. They smash against the far wall, ink splattering the silver tapestry like black blood. He grabs the heavy chair—solid mahogany that would take two servants to lift—and hurls it. It crashes into the vanity, shattering the mirror.
Shards of glass rain down onto the carpet, glittering in the dim light.
I flinch, stepping back until my calves hit the frame of the bed. I fold my arms around myself, gripping the loose thread on my sleeve, twisting it until the skin of my finger turns white.
He cannot use magic. I am here. My presence is a dampener, a wet blanket smothering the fire of his Chaos. This violence... this is just a man. A man with the strength of a Khuzuth warrior and the temper of a scorned god.
He spins toward me, breathing hard. He stands amidst the wreckage of his own sanctuary, his chest rising and falling.
"Are you satisfied?" he snarls, stepping over the broken chair. "Is this what you wanted, witch? To see a Lord of Lliandor reduced to a toddler throwing a tantrum because his toys are broken?"
"I saved you," I whisper. My voice is thin, trembling, but I force the words out.
"You humiliated me!"
He closes the distance between us in two strides. He grabs my shoulders, his fingers digging into the silk of the gown he bought me. He shakes me, his head snapping back, his teeth bared.
"Do you know what it felt like?" he hisses, leaning down until his face is inches from mine. I can smell the wine on his breath, sharp and sour. "Sitting there. Naked. Powerless. While that brute Malek flexed his aura like a club."
"He would have crushed you," I say. I don't look away. I watch his hands. They are clenched so tight on my shoulders I think he might snap my bones, but he doesn't strike. "He knew you were weak. He was going to kill you."
"I would rather have died!" he roars. "I would rather have let him carve the heart from my chest than accept the charity of a slave!"
The air moving through the room feels pressurized, thick with his rage. But beneath the anger, I feel it—the leak in the dam. I feel the torrent of his shame. It is a cold, slimy thing, curling in his gut. He hates himself right now more than he could ever hate me.
"You are not a slave to me anymore, are you?" he asks, his voice dropping to a terrifying, quiet register. "That is the truth of it. I am the one in chains. I am the one addicted to the poison you drip into the air."
He releases one of my shoulders to grab my jaw, forcing my head up. His thumb presses against my cheekbone, hard enough to bruise.
"I should kill you," he murmurs. His eyes search mine, frantic and wild. "I should snap your neck right now. It would be so easy. A twist of the wrist. A snap of bone. And then the silence would end. The Serpent would return."
I stop breathing. My heart is a frantic drum against my ribs. I can see the pulse beating in his throat. I can feel the intent radiating off him—he wants to do it. He wants to destroy the source of his weakness.
"Do it," I challenge him.
The words bypass my fear. They come from that deep, ancient place in my blood, the Purna heritage that refuses to bow.
"If I am a poison," I say, voice steadying, "then cure yourself. Kill me. And when Malek comes back to finish what he started, you can die with your pride intact."
Imas freezes. His grip on my jaw tightens, pain flaring white-hot.
He stares at me. For a long, agonizing moment, I think he is going to do it. I think I have pushed him too far.
Then, a shudder runs through his entire body. His hand drops from my face. He steps back, looking at his own palms as if they are covered in filth.
"I can't," he whispers. The admission is a broken thing. "I can't."
He looks at me with pure loathing. "I hate you. I hate the way you make the world quiet. I hate that when I look at you, I do not see a corpse, I see..."
He cuts himself off. He runs a hand through his hair, pulling at the strands.
"Get in the bed," he commands.
I blink. "What?" His change of moods is like a whiplash on my skin.
"The bed," he snaps, pointing to the massive mattress behind me. "Get in it."
"My Lord, I—"
"Do not make me drag you."
He doesn't wait for me to comply. He grabs my wrist and hauls me toward the bed. He shoves me down onto the velvet coverlet. I scramble backward, pressing myself against the headboard, my knees drawn up.
I expect him to tear my dress. I expect the final violation.
But he does not undress. He does not touch his belt. He climbs onto the bed fully clothed, boots and all. He sprawls out beside me, on top of the covers, lying on his back and staring at the canopy.
"Sleep," he says.
I stare at him, baffled and terrified. "You... you want me to sleep?"
"I want you to be unconscious," he says, his voice flat. "When you sleep, your mind... drifts. The barrier softens. The calm spreads." He closes his eyes, his features drawn and haggard. "I need the dose, Leora. I need the poison to drown out the memory of Malek's laughter."
I do not understand him. Does he want it or not? One minute, he was as ferocious as a wild beast, and now, he is calm.
He reaches out, his hand blind, seeking. His fingers wrap around my ankle. It is not a caress. It is a shackle. He grips my ankle tightly, anchoring me to him.
"If you try to leave," he murmurs, "I will know. And I will not be so restrained a second time."
I sit there, frozen. The storm batters the window. The room smells of spilled ink and the metallic tang of his distress.
He lies there, a dark, beautiful ruin of a man, holding onto me because I am the only thing keeping him from falling apart. He wants to kill me, but he is sleeping beside me because the silence I offer is more precious to him than his god.
Slowly, cautiously, I lower myself down. I lie on my side, facing away from him, curling into a ball. His hand remains on my ankle, a heavy, cold weight.
I close my eyes. I try to build the wall again, but I am too tired. The exhaustion pulls at me, dragging me down into the dark.
I drift. The sound of his breathing, ragged and uneven, eventually slows, matching the rhythm of the rain.
Hiss.
My eyes snap open.
The room is dark. The fire has died down to embers. Imas is asleep, his grip on my ankle loosened but not broken.
Hiss.
It sounds like steam escaping a pipe. Or a snake sliding over dry leaves.
I sit up slowly, my heart rate spiking. "Imas?" I whisper.
He does not stir.
Interloper.
The voice is not in the room. It is inside my skull.
It is a sound that has no business existing in a human mind. It is wet and ancient, a slithering, coiling vibration that wraps around my brain stem and squeezes. It tastes of old blood and copper coins.
I clap my hands over my ears, but the voice laughs—a dry, rasping sound like scales rubbing together.
You think you can hide him from Me? You think your silence is a shield?
I gasp, scrambling backward on the bed, pulling my leg free from Imas's grip. I press my back against the headboard, scanning the shadows. The corners of the room seem to be moving, undulating.
He is Mine, the voice hisses. He was forged in pain. You are softening the iron, little witch. You are ruining the blade.
"Get out," I whimper, squeezing my eyes shut. "Get out of my head."
I need not enter, The Serpent whispers, and I feel the phantom sensation of a forked tongue flicking against the inside of my ear. I am everywhere there is misery. And you... you are full of fear now, aren't you?
The pressure in the room spikes. The air turns freezing.
Die, the voice commands. It is not a suggestion. It is an order woven into the fabric of reality. Die, and give him back to Me.
I scream, but no sound comes out. My throat seizes. Invisible coils wrap around my chest, squeezing the air out of me.
I look at Imas. He is sleeping peacefully, his face relaxed for the very first time in weeks, completely unaware that his god has come to collect what is His.