Chapter 20 Bryony
brYONY
THE WEEKS PASS in a blur. I wake up sore and aching, train with Amara until my vision blurs, the Wolf heals me, and then I do it again.
Shatter. Rebuild. Repeat.
When you’re raised for the altar, fury lives under your skin with nowhere to go. Nothing to sink its teeth into. Nothing to push against. A body’s just a vessel, and an Anchor’s body always breaks. Now, I’m learning that my body can be a weapon.
I’ve never felt it grow strong, never experienced the rush of letting all that wrath out and pushing past limits I didn’t know existed.
So I seek it out—the control, the rage, the cuts, the bruises.
Calluses harden my palms from clutching hilts and handles.
I have muscles where there used to be softness.
And the Wolf watches me. There’s something about being the sole focus of a god’s attention that makes your blood run hot, even when you despise him.
Especially when you despise him.
I haven’t spoken to him since that night in the snow, and I’m savoring every second of his frustration. Every ignored attempt at conversation. Every time I walk by him like he’s furniture. Like he’s nothing.
The hallway encounters are my favorite. The way his jaw clenches and his wings flare slightly, instinctively trying to block my path.
I brush past without acknowledging him. He’s used to humans crawling on their bellies for him, and I want him to taste what it’s like to want what he can’t have.
Right now, his damaged pride is what’s keeping me alive.
He’ll want to conquer me before he kills me.
“Get up.” Amara’s wings block out the sun as she looms over me. “Lying there won’t save your ass in a real fight.”
“I could play dead,” I mutter, pushing myself up. “If I get good enough at it.”
She snorts. “Adorable. What’s the first rule?”
“Keep my weight on the balls of my feet. Stay fluid. Be ready to move.”
“Then why are you standing there like you’re posing for a portrait?”
She lunges, but this time I’m prepared. My blade meets hers with an impact that rattles my teeth.
“Better.” She eases back, something almost proud in her expression. “But you’re still in your head too much. Real combat is in your blood. Either you feel it, or you die. A god is stronger, faster, and powered by actual magic.”
“I only need to survive three days in Vartena,” I say. “Get through the guards, gut my uncle, and maybe damage the Wolf as petty revenge before he finishes me. I’m not trying to take on every demi in Scillari.”
“I don’t do things by halves, and you never know what might happen. You live longer if you keep him interested, right? Nothing interests a god that deranged more than a challenge. So if you’re going to fight, make it worth watching. Stop overthinking your footwork.”
I wipe the blood from my split lip. “And what happened to all that talk about proper form?”
She rolls her eyes. “Form is just the foundation, and you already know that. Now you learn how to cheat. It’ll keep the Wolf on his toes. Gods are arrogant bastards who expect humans to cower and beg. Use that.”
“What if they expect resistance?” I ask.
“Then give them submission until you’re close enough to slip steel between their ribs.”
* * *
The Wolf always comes at night.
I’m perched on the bed wearing only my shift, counting the new bruises and scrapes scattered over my skin, when he appears in my doorway. No knock. He doesn’t ask permission.
He tosses a folded letter onto the mattress beside me. “From your sister.”
I offer him the barest nod—the only acknowledgment he’s gotten from me for three weeks. I write to Theo, he delivers the letters, she writes back, and he brings them when he comes to heal me. That’s it. That’s all he gets.
He settles against the pillows next to me. “Come here.”
I let him pull me into his lap without protest. This is a dance we’ve perfected. His hands find my skin under my chemise, and that now-familiar heat sinks in, soothing away the day’s damage.
“The silent princess act is beneath you.” He says this a lot, as if it’ll irritate me into speaking. His thumb traces the curve of my shoulder. “It’s starting to piss me off. How much longer are we going to play this game? It’s been nearly a month, Devaliant.”
I stare at the wall, my jaw clenched. His power pulses through me, and I press my teeth together to keep from moaning.
The bastard’s learning my tells. He knows exactly how to brush and drag his magic against every part of me in a caress of warmth and light intended to make me crave things I shouldn’t.
As if every nerve ending is being kissed awake.
I count the cracks in the ceiling. One. Two. Three.
“Look at me.”
Four. Five.
“Look at me.” His voice is dangerous now. Hungry. His grip on my waist tightens. “Say you hate me. Say you want me dead.”
I shift my focus to the roses creeping across my chamber walls. They’ve been spreading for weeks, as if his magic can’t help but bleed into every corner of this space, making it his. Making it ours.
“Are you trying to bore me?” he snaps. “Trust me when I say you won’t enjoy what comes next.”
I finally meet his eyes. Then finish me, I say with my glare. Do it.
A muscle in his jaw twitches. “I get it. You’re provoking me, aren’t you?” His mouth curves into a cruel smile. “Baiting the god into throwing away his new toy?”
Toy. Something dark must show in my expression because his face sparks with triumph.
Got you, that look says.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, skimming his touch over my ribs. “I’ve been thinking about it. Toys don’t speak, do they? They just…” His palm grazes the underside of my breast. “They just sit still and let themselves be played with. They take what they’re given.”
His fingers inch higher, brushing my nipple through the fabric. I seize his wrist, digging crescents into his skin.
“Problem?” His eyebrow arches. When I don’t answer, his other hand wraps around my throat. “I said, do you have a problem with my hands on you, toy?”
When I do nothing but scowl at him, he shoves another pulse of power into me. Harder. A tidal wave of sensation that sends a lick of heat and white-hot pleasure between my thighs—designed to get me to submit. I bite my lip against a whimper.
“Maybe I should Claim you.” His breath ghosts over my ear. “I could make you do whatever I wanted if I did. I could have you on your knees, crawling at my feet and thanking me for the privilege.”
That’s it. I’ve had it.
I shove him down, plant my palms against the mattress on either side of his head, and say my first words to him in weeks.
“If you want some proxy to take your anger out on, there are thousands of Unclaimed humans in Vartena you could torment without breaking the Accords. Some must have ancestors who fought in Scillari during the war. You told me you have a history with Devaliants, so what did my family do to make you hate us? What made you focus on me?”
His irises flash with inner flame, and his hands flex as if he’s fighting for control, holding himself back from murdering me.
But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.
“Right,” I say quietly. “You only want my voice when you know you’ll like what it says.
When it doesn’t ask inconvenient questions.
” I push off his lap, putting space between us even as my skin hums with the memory of his touch.
“If you ever threaten to Claim me again, I’ll walk out that door and let Amara gut me herself. Now get out.”
* * *
Three days later, I’m getting my ass kicked again.
“Who taught you to fight like this?” I ask Amara.
For a long moment, she’s silent. Then, “My brother. Without his lessons, I’d be dead a dozen times over.”
“During the war? Is that when you hurt your wing?”
“No.” The word is sharp, final. A door slamming shut.
Before I can apologize, Amara comes at me fast. I block, the impact jarring up my arm, but I’m learning. I attack, putting everything I have into it. Our blades collide. She sidesteps, but I’m already adjusting, already moving. It feels natural now.
Advance. Retreat. Pivot.
Dance.
We trade more blows, the clash of metal punctuated by our harsh breathing. I clench my teeth and push through the burning in my muscles. She spins lightning-quick and cracks the flat of her blade against my wrist. My weapon goes flying.
I don’t even think—just move. But she’s already there, sweeping my legs out from under me. The breath leaves my lungs in a rush as my back slams into the ground.
Amara’s boot lands on my chest, pinning me. The tip of her dagger kisses the hollow of my throat. “And you’re dead. You yield?”
“Yield.”
She sheaths her blade and extends a hand. I let her haul me up, trying not to wince at the fresh constellation of bruises blooming beneath my skin.
“Not bad. We’ll keep working on your stamina,” Amara says, brushing dirt from her clothes. “But you need to remember the three rules of fighting gods: hurt them from a distance, run fast, and hide well. Getting close enough for them to grab you? That’s the end. You have to focus on—”
Her eyes flicker over my shoulder, and a wry smile twists her lips.
With a slow, dreadful certainty, I turn.
The Wolf lounges against the archway. The last rays of the dying sun paint his wings in shades of amber and russet, each feather edged in light until he glows.
Something clenches in my chest—a snarl of emotion too tangled to unravel. He leaves me off-balance, as exposed as an open wound.
You’re just another Eternal using me up before you finish me off.
And he is. He’s evaluating me. Taking inventory of his weapon, checking for damage, making sure his toy still works properly. That’s all this is.
I shove down the mess of feelings and lock them away, turning to Amara.
“Thanks for today,” I tell Amara, forcing my voice to stay steady. “Same time tomorrow?”
“Yeah.” She glances between us, and her smirk widens. “Your girl needs throwing knives, Wolf.”
He lifts a brow, keeping that burning gaze on me as if I’m the only thing in the world worth watching. “Does she?”
“You wanted her trained. She needs to be able to throw fast and hit what she’s aiming at every time.”
The Wolf makes a considering sound. His eyes travel over my sweaty skin, lingering over the cut on my arm and the bruises darkening my collarbones.
My chest rises and falls as my breath quickens.
It feels like being touched, that stare.
Intimate and possessive. Claiming me without laying a finger on me.
“I want her kitted with at least four throwers,” Amara continues, either oblivious to the rising tension or content to ignore it. “Good ones.”
The Wolf blinks and looks away. “I’ll consider it. If she proves she’s worth four Turpori blades.”
Then he’s gone, pushing off the wall and disappearing into the tower. The air seems lighter without him. Easier to breathe.
Amara leans in close. “Did you see the look on his face? That’s a male trying real hard to pretend he doesn’t want the one thing he shouldn’t touch. That’s power, little human. Use it before he uses you.”