Chapter 8
Syrrah
They knelt for Her blessings, then rose to break Her. Amara’s mercy was great, but not endless. Thus She left, and with Her, took the soul of the world.”
— FROM THE BOOK OF SILENT GODS
My hands are bound, but my legs are free. As we walk, I take stock of my situation. Three armed men, all larger and stronger than me.
They haven’t searched me—probably assuming a woman would carry nothing dangerous. The auriela vine still rests in my pocket, and the dagger lies against my thigh.
I’m not helpless, despite my desperate situation.
We stop when the sun begins to set, making camp in a small courtyard. Ancient pillars rise around us, their shadows stretching like fingers across the ground. A fountain stands dry and crumbling at the center, its basin filled with dead leaves.
There are roses carved into the pillars, and a peace settles over me as I stare at one, seeing a blue light flicker across its surface.
I will do what I must to survive.
“Make yourself useful,” Addicas commands, shoving a cooking pot into my hands. “Prepare food.”
I look pointedly at the rope binding my wrists. “I’ll need my hands.”
He studies me as if sizing up my risk, then nods to Peitr. The swordsman cuts my bonds but keeps his blade ready. “Try anything,” he warns, “and you’ll wish we’d left you with your dead friend.”
The reminder of Rooke sends fresh pain through my chest, but I push it aside.
Focus, I tell myself. Stay alive. Make them pay. For Rooke.
They watch as I prepare a simple stew with their provisions, none of them noticing when I slip four of the leaves from the auriela vine into the pot. The leaves dissolve quickly, releasing their potent oils into the broth.
“Smells good,” Eryn says, leaning in.
Then his hand finds my waist. His touch is a hot, invasive weight, his fingers curling over my hip, pawing at my bottom as if I am nothing more than a possession to be handled, claimed.
My body reacts instantly. Not with fear. Not with panic. But with pure, undiluted fury.
I jolt, every muscle locking tight, my spine going rigid as though struck by lightning. My teeth grind together, the sharp crack of enamel meeting enamel the only thing keeping the fury inside me from spilling out in a snarl.
How dare he?
Heat floods through me, not the warmth of embarrassment or the sizzle of desire, but the searing burn of violating rage.
I am not his. I am not anyone’s.
“Maybe we should keep her after the master’s done,” Eryn muses, fingers squeezing, testing. “Could use a good cook.”
My breath hisses through my teeth.
Slowly, deliberately, I turn my head to look at him. My skin crawls where he touches me, every nerve screaming for me to tear his hand away, to break his fingers one by one.
But I don’t flinch. I don’t cower.
I let him see the fire burning behind my eyes. Let him feel the promise of violence curled beneath my skin.
He winks, grinning as if my fury is nothing but the buzz of a disgruntled fly.
I pull away from his touch, my skin crawling. “It needs to simmer.”
The stew bubbles quietly as the sun sets, giving way to the red of the moon that still hangs in the sky. The savory aroma fills the air, masking the sweet undertone of the auriela. My captors grow increasingly impatient, their hunger making them crass and cranky.
When I finally serve them, they fall upon the food like starving wolves. I watch them eat, counting each spoonful, calculating how long until the vine takes effect. My own bowl sits untouched.
“Not hungry?” Peitr asks.
I touch my throat. “No.”
He laughs, reaching for my bowl. “More for us then.”
Father always said a woman’s place was in service to others—serving food, serving men, serving the Gods.
My whole life has been a cage built from men’s expectations.
Be quiet. Be pure. Be grateful for your place.
Even in this maze of horrors, they think they can own me, trade me, break me to their will.
“More stew?” I ask sweetly, playing the role they expect—docile, helpful, harmless.
Eryn grins up at me with that same leering look he’s worn since they caught me.
His hand strays to my hip as I pour, and I let him think his touch frightens me.
Let him believe my trembling is from fear rather than rage.
They see what they expect to see—a captured bride, already broken to their will. They don’t notice how I watch them eat, each spoonful a victory. Don’t question why I refuse my own portion. After all, a woman is beneath notice.
Addicas begins to sway first, his words slurring. The confusion in his eyes brings with it a dark satisfaction. Peitr notices next, struggling to stand as his legs give way. His sword—the one he held against my spine—clatters uselessly to the ground.
“What did you…?” Eryn’s eyes go wide as understanding comes too late. His grip on my hip weakens, hand falling away as the poison takes hold.
“A woman’s place is in service,” I tell them, watching their desperate attempts to fight the creeping darkness. “Consider this my final act of service to men like you.”
They collapse one by one, their bodies hitting the stone with dull thuds that echo like victory drums in my chest. I kneel beside Eryn, checking his pulse. Strong, steady—he’ll live, probably. The knowledge should I’ve done harm should bother me more than it does.
“Sleep well,” I whisper, I’m unable to carry Peitr’s sword but I retrieve his long dagger. “Dream of the moment you thought a woman was yours to claim.”
Standing over their unconscious forms, I feel something hard and bright unfurling in my chest—not quite joy, not quite rage, but something powerful and new. Something that tastes like freedom.
They’ll wake in a week, maybe two—if something doesn’t find them first. And when they do, weakened and helpless, let them remember the bride they thought to cage who became the architect of their downfall.
I use Peitr’s sword to cut through the ropes he’d used to bind my ankles, shackling me like a horse to prevent me from running. The blade is well-balanced, its edge sharp enough to sing. It will serve me well, if I need it.
“You make a man feel rather inadequate, Innocence.”
I whirl, bringing the sword up in a clumsy defensive stance. Rooke leans against an archway, one hand pressed to his blood-crusted temple. He’s pale and sways slightly but he’s alive. Very much alive.
“Rooke.” The sword drops from suddenly numb fingers. “I thought—I saw you—”
His eye gleams with a mixture of pride and amusement.
“Takes more than a knock to the head to kill me.” He moves closer, stepping over Eryn’s prone form. “Though I’ll admit, that was an impressive hit. Woke up just in time to follow your trail.” His gaze drops to the unconscious men. “Seems I needn’t have rushed.”
Relief and anger war in my chest. “I thought you were dead.”
“I was unconscious,” he corrects, now close enough to touch. His hand cups my cheek, thumb brushing away tears I hadn’t realized I’d shed. “I’m sorry I frightened you.”
“I’m not frightened,” I lie, even as I lean into his touch. “I’m furious.”
“I can tell.” His smile turns wicked. “It’s incredibly attractive. I—”
I kiss him.
For a breath he doesn’t react—doesn’t move, doesn’t even breathe.
I can feel the tension rippling through him, the moment of stunned hesitation as if he hadn’t expected this, as if he can’t quite believe I would be the one to close the distance.
Then his hands tangle in my hair, a low groan rumbling through him as he pulls me deeper into him, crushing any distance between us. This isn’t the careful exploration of our first kiss, or the desperate relief of our second. This is heat and hunger, possession and promise.
His body crowds into mine, heat and strength and something almost desperate, until my back meets the pillar behind me.
The cool stone does nothing to temper the fire building between us.
His hand slides down my side, slow, reverent, shaping the curve of my waist before gripping my hip, anchoring me to him.
I gasp against his lips, and he swallows the sound greedily, as if he would steal every breath I offer.
I curl my fingers into his tunic, feeling the solid muscle beneath, the heartbeat pounding just as frantically as mine.
A small part of me reminds me of my vows, of the propriety I’ve clung to all my life.
It whispers that I should push him aside.
Instead, I find myself pulling him closer, my fingers digging into his shoulders as if I could keep him from ever leaving again.
His mouth travels down my neck, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. Each touch ignites something new in me, something wild and wanting that I’ve never allowed myself to feel before. When his teeth graze my pulse point, I gasp.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs against my skin. “Tell me you’re honoring your vows.”
My vows.
Vows spoken for me, over me, binding me to a life I did not ask for.
I should be pious. Dutiful. A healer. A quiet thing, a gentle thing, meant only for giving, for mending, for service.
But that was never who I was meant to be.
Here, beneath Rooke’s touch, I am more than what was dictated to me. I am more than expectation. More than sacrifice.
“Tell me to stop, Syrrah.”
I can’t lie—not here in the Labyrinth where truth holds such power. Because I want this. Want him. Want everything he offers with his skilled hands and wicked mouth.
This isn’t something he will take from me. This hunger, this need, this desire is mine. For the first time, without expectation, without duty pressing down on me like iron, I am choosing what I want.
And I want this. I want him.
But more than that—I want to want. I want to take. I want to claim something for myself.
This is my riot.
This is my rebellion.
“I have no oaths,” I breathe instead. “I renounce all vows. My body is mine alone.”
The words taste like revolution. Like fire. Like freedom.
And I have never felt more alive.
Rooke groans, the sound hungry and desperate. Then he’s sinking to his knees before me, pushing aside the torn edges of my dress, exposing more of me to the cool air—and to him. His hands slide up my thighs, leaving trails of fire in their wake.
“Trust me,” he whispers, looking up at me with such intensity it steals my breath. “Let me show you what pleasure feels like.”
His smile is pure sin as he presses a kiss to my inner thigh.
“Hold on to the pillar,” he instructs. “You’re going to need it.”
The first touch of his tongue makes me cry out. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever felt—heat and pressure and pleasure so exquisite it borders on pain. My knees buckle, but his hands hold me steady as he works me higher and higher.
He teaches me with every stroke, every flick, every slow, agonizing press of his mouth, showing me pleasures I was never meant to know.
Pleasures I never realized I was starving for.
I come apart under his mouth, sensation crashing through me in waves. I whimper, shuddering, clutching at the stone as he holds me through it, grounding me, anchoring me, his hands gentling only when my body begins to tremble with the aftershocks.
When I can finally breathe again, he presses one last kiss to my thigh—reverently so.
When he finally stands, his eye is dark with want.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to my temple. “Absolutely beautiful.”
I sag against him, my body humming with aftershocks. “Is it always like that?”
His laugh rumbles through his chest. “No. Sometimes it’s better.” He brushes my hair back from my face, his touch unexpectedly tender. “But we should move. These three won’t sleep for long.”
“They will,” I admit, feeling no remorse. “They’ll sleep for weeks, if something doesn’t find them first.”
Rather than be horrified, Rooke nuzzles my cheek. “My bloodthirsty bride. How delightfully surprising you are.”
Bride.
The word shouldn’t settle so easily, shouldn’t send warmth curling through my chest. But it does.
I should correct him. I don’t.
He lets me go with reluctance, but when I step over Eryn’s body, Rooke doesn’t follow.
“Wait.” He crouches down to inspect Eryn’s boots. With practiced efficiency, he pulls them off.
“Here,” he says, brushing dirt from the fine leather. “They’ll fit you better than the rags you wear.”
I hesitate, staring at the boots.
“Go on,” he insists, kneeling to slide them onto my feet himself. His hands linger just a moment longer than necessary, his touch firm but careful.
Heat floods my cheeks. “Thank you.”
He grins. “Thank yourself. You’ve saved your own life, lady healer. Come. We should find shelter before dark.”
Rooke’s hand finds mine as we walk, his fingers intertwining with my own. The touch is simple, almost chaste compared to what we’ve just shared, but it sends warmth spreading through my chest.
Something has shifted between us, as permanent and profound as the changes in me. I’m not the same woman who woke in the Labyrinth—that careful, controlled healer seems like a stranger now.
I don’t know who I’m becoming, but I’m eager to find out.