Wrathborn
Chapter Forty-One
Eridessa
Awareness slams into me all at once—the red-washed room, the plush mattress beneath my back, the heat of two warm bodies pressed too close for comfort.
Pollock on my left. Orán on my right.
Their breathing is slow and deep. Their heartbeats synced with my own. And both are sleeping like men who believe themselves untouchable.
Which is the last thing they are, after what they did to me.
I remain still, cataloging them through scent and sound, mapping the presence of their power.
The Soul Serpent smells of leather, the frostbitten stillness of winter, and restrained violence.
Like a snow-capped mountain under a bitter sky moments before an avalanche.
He has leashed the wolf, but its presence, that of something ancient and predatory, promises even in sleep to deliver ruthless and terrible destruction if provoked.
On my other side, the Plague Caster’s scent is more disarming, with hints of pine, earth, and sun-warmed soil. There’s also the slight tang of budding spring and pollen, and his power, though quieter, is no less deadly. It hums with vitality beneath his skin, waiting patiently to do his bidding.
Memories come next—uninvited and vicious.
The bindings. Orán held me here until his brother arrived. The two of them cornered me. Orán giving permission—fucking permission—for his brother to slip into my mind and tear open places I’ve spent a lifetime fortifying.
Like my soul, my past and my secrets were theirs for the taking.
Any given moment is theirs to unearth and steal.
The thought lands fully formed and absolute.
Dead men. The both of them.
My jaw tightens. My fingers curl into the sheets, nails biting into the fabric as I fight the urge to strike while they sleep.
Could they live on without their hearts?
If I rip them out of their chests, would that be the end of them?
The beast inside thrashes to be let loose once again, though she’s also torn between instincts that should not coexist—the urge to tear Pollock apart and this obscene, irrational pull toward him.
To maim.
To fuck.
As though she can’t decide which.
But I can.
I force her down, not because the desire isn’t there, but because something hotter burns brighter through me. A wrath more fervent than lust.
Eridessa Wrathborn.
The name I was given has never made more sense than at this moment as I wake to the knowledge that Pollock didn’t just force me to relive my most painful memories—he watched them. Sifted through them as if my life were nothing more than an old-world relic. A film. A television show.
Like he was… what did they call it? Fucking channel surfing.
Switching stations at will. Dropping into whatever part of my life he wanted to see. Rifling through the most painful moments on a whim.
As if there would be no consequence for tearing through my goddamn mind.
And I remember everything.
Every fragment he siphoned. Every memory he touched. Every moment he made me relive—pushing, guiding, forcing me deeper when I tried to pull away. He wouldn’t stop and kept urging me further back, forcing me to relive things I’ve spent a lifetime trying to bury.
Raping my mind—and I will not allow that truth to be dulled or softened by fate, or bonds, or whatever divine excuse he thinks shields him.
I am not weak. I am not broken. Not anymore. And the last thing I will ever claim to be is a victim.
He will regret the fucking day he made me feel like one again.
I fight to keep my heart steady, my breath even, but the rage simmering beneath my skin makes it damn near impossible.
Our rhythms are too closely matched—if mine slips, even slightly, they’ll feel it.
Wake. Move. And I’ll lose the advantage before I’ve decided how best to kill these demons wrapped in divine Judgment.
So I stifle the rage as much as I can, and let the beast rioting inside me offer her solutions, while I mentally map out the location of my weapons.
I have to be swift. There can be no space for hesitation. Not when one misstep could cost me my life, which means there’s little room for error or mercy.
But this is my home, and that changes things.
I know every inch of the space it allows.
Where the floorboards creak. Where shadows pool thickest. Where each piece of furniture sits like a familiar ally.
I know where every weapon is stashed, the mortal ones and the immortal ones alike, blades forged for bloodshed and tools meant to end creatures who believe themselves untouchable.
The room is still washed in the eerie red glow, transformed by the ominous moon. The air shifts as a breeze slips inside from the window, cool and coaxing, tempting me once more toward it.
Toward flight.
No.
The forest offers no safety. No refuge. Orán holds dominion there, over root and branch, vine and leaf. I will not be bound to another tree.
Inside these walls, I can avoid nature for a little while. Buy myself some time before Orán bends the living world to his will and brings it crashing through stone and timber.
It’s Pollock I need to prepare for.
For his voice slipping into my thoughts, where his presence has no right to be. He will attempt to pry my mind open again, but I can’t let that happen.
Closing my eyes, I force myself to think and search for a way to keep him out.
Pollock used my past to anchor me to this form and bring me back. Could I somehow do the same? Use a strong memory to ground me in the present, or keep it walled up in my mind so it’s the only one he sees?
Like the lessons with the Horsemen in the training yard, I could treat this as an opportunity to adapt and learn.
Pollock stirs.
My time has run out.
I vault over Orán, feel his hand catch briefly in the thin fabric of my nightgown, but I don’t let it slow me. The cloth tears down the seam as I wrench free, baring skin and fury alike, and I sprint down the hall.
“Eri, wait—!”
I’m already gone—feet slamming against the floor, blood roaring in my ears. I bring down the hallway table as I go and let it and all that rests upon it crash behind me. I burst into the front room where there’s space to move, to fight, to finish this.
Footfalls thunder behind me.
I upend the couch with a grunt, muscles burning as I flip it onto its back.
My hand dives beneath the frame and rips the Velcro harness strapped to its underside free.
Twin daggers slide into my palms. The power in them sings the moment my hands circle the handles.
The metal blooms with pale, unforgiving light as runes flare to life along the fuller as dormant divinity wakes.
A weapon capable of killing divine beings, and my house is full of them.
“Eliora.”
Orán reaches the threshold first—and stops cold.
I face him naked and armed, my stance low and lethal, blades held loose and at the ready. Whatever he sees in my expression makes him still. Makes him understand. I am no longer his dear Eliora, if I ever was.
“Call me that again, Horseman,” I say quietly, “and I will gut you from spleen to neck.”
The front door slams open.
Pollock takes one slow step inside.
The beast is back. His eyes are alight with the primal fury that radiates off him. A presence heavy enough to press against my chest. My own animal answers instantly—claws itching beneath my skin once again, heat coiling low, that lure to go to him compelling, but I shut it down.
I recall my last night among my sisters. The nave. Their faces. The years I kneeled beside them in worship, and the seconds it took to cut each one down. Their whimpers. Their sobs. Their pleas for mercy. For those we slaughtered at the end, the ones who were left on the ground and awaited death.
He opens his mouth, but I cut him off.
“You.” I lift one blade and level it at him, the point steady, unwavering. “You are fucking dead to me. I will watch your corpse bleed out on this godforsaken floor before I ever let you invade my mind again.”
The words rip out of me, sharp and unfiltered.
“Calm yours—”
“How dare you,” I snarl at him. “Meddle in my thoughts. Trespass through my dreams. Steal into memories you had no business seeing. And while I slept too—”
“I was only trying to help.”
“Help?” The word is laced with venom and almost a laugh. My grip tightens on the hilt.
“Yes. I needed to know what you’ve been through, so I could understand how they manipulated your thoughts all those years. Your Order—”
Orán stiffens. “You dug into her thoughts while she slept?” Horror bleeds into his voice, raw and unmasked.
Pollock strides forward, unrepentant, and I shift instantly—weight on the balls of my feet, blades angled for a kill strike.
“Don’t act so appalled,” he snaps. “I needed to know what kind of evil we were dealing with, and the only way to do that was to see her past. How they shaped her. How that man molded her to his purpose.”
“Eridessa, I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” Orán says.
“That’s no fucking excuse.” I don’t look at him. My eyes never leave Pollock. “You bound me. You invited him here. You gave him permission to crawl through my mind in the forest.”
“I didn’t invite him,” Orán fires back. “He followed your scent. I played no part in that. Whatever is happening to you both was not my doing.”
Pollock strides forward until he stands between us, shoulders squared. “If you want someone to blame, Eri, blame me. Not him.”
My laugh is cold. “Oh, I do.”
“I only allowed him to influence you in your room and in the woods to bring you back,” Orán says, urgency breaking through his restraint.
“You weren’t in your right mind. We were afraid you’d hurt yourself—or disappear.
It isn’t safe beyond these woods. You don’t yet know what walks this world now. ”
He moves closer, and his gaze finds mine over Pollock's shoulders, and his eyes plead for understanding.
“And I didn’t know what the power I shared with you could do. I didn’t understand what was happening to you.”
Silence stretches between us—tight, fragile, one wrong move from shattering.