Chapter 18
The Hound
My shackles drag across the pristine marble floor as the King’s men escort me to the throne room.
I have four Rogues behind me, one on either side, and four up ahead.
If I could slip even a pinky out of these chains, they’d all be lying dead on the floor.
And if I had Sena, they’d be puffs of red mist.
Or black.
I’m not quite sure what color they’d bleed. Nor do I really care.
Alaric has sent for me. Just as I’d hoped for. And that’s all I care about.
Two Rogues pull open towering onyx doors, revealing the devil himself. Alaric Tenebrus perched high on a golden throne—the same color as his eyes. He watches me much like a snake, calculating and twitchy, tracking my every step as I’m led to the center of the room.
I’m forced to kneel, my knees slamming into the cold marble floor, but it hurts my pride more than it hurts my bones. My bones have endured years of torture. Centuries.
There’s a shuffle of boots, and then the room falls silent, the shift of my shackles the only sound.
“Hound,” Alaric addresses me with a sneer, lifting his chin in an attempt to appear almighty in his seat.
If he were as strong as he claims to be, he wouldn’t bother with my chains. Wouldn’t have bothered slapping them on fifty years ago. No, he’s scared of me. All of them are. I might be covered in chains, but all I’d need is a pinky.
Alaric knows this. He might be wicked and vile, but he’s smart, too.
There’s disgust stamped on his shadowed face, colorless lips pulling back to reveal perfectly straight teeth with canines sharp enough to draw blood. His long fingers wrap the golden arm of his throne, shadows and inky darkness dancing between them.
It’s a party trick meant to intimidate, but it won’t work on me. I smell panic mixed with his usual nauseating arrogance and narcissism. He wants something—needs something—and he’s desperate to get it. I feel it in the marrow of my bones.
“It seems I require your…expertise,” Alaric drawls, straightening on his throne. “I’ve lost something that belongs to me, and I need you to find her.”
Her.
The word cracks through my skull like a whip.
I haven’t spoken in days, a week maybe, so it takes monumental effort to clear my throat and force out the words, “Can’t find her yourself?”
Black magic bursts from his fingers, lashing the sliver of bare skin between the plate of metal strapped to my chest and layers of chains hanging off my hips.
It takes little to no effort to stay expressionless.
The burst of pain is so distant from my body, but I know he broke skin because I can hear my blood trickling onto the floor.
Hurt is an old friend—it doesn’t bother me anymore.
Never really bothered me in the first place.
“Do not. Mock me,” Alaric snarls, his expression darkening, “or I’ll find another hunter, drag you back to your old cell, and you will rot for another fifty years. More if I can help it.”
Even with all the metal on my shoulders, I manage to roll them back. “Another hunter?”
The violence in his stare multiplies. I’m hardly in a position to brag, but it is my field of expertise. So much so that merely referring to it as ‘hunting’ is almost an insult.
Alaric needs me, and unfortunately for everyone involved, I need him too.
More of my blood drips on the tile.
The King shifts, running a pale hand over his chin before propping his elbow on the gilded armrest. Yellow eyes find my cerulean ones.
“I’m not sure where they are keeping her.
It’s somewhere hidden and heavily warded.
I need you to find her and bring her to me.
” Alaric’s eyes sharpen in warning. “Do not kill her.”
I snort, chains clinking as I move to stand. I sure as fuck will not kneel before the man asking a favor of me—captor or not. The guards along the wall lunge forward, and to my surprise, Alaric waves them back.
He waits until they’ve settled back in their positions before returning his attention to me.
“Well?” he asks, his tone slightly less degrading now that I’m standing at my full height. “Can you do it?”
Ouch.
“I could find a drop of your sweat in the ocean.”
Alaric doesn’t react on the outside to my statement, but I can smell the rise in his temper.
It brings me great pleasure knowing what I can accomplish with one sentence.
Though I ache to pile it on, I’m smart enough to know that there’s a line between cocky and just plain stupid. I live my life on that line.
Wetting my cracked lips, I weigh his offer. “I’d need her scent.”
Alaric flicks his chin to the guard on his right, and the Rogue steps forward, a tattered piece of cloth dangling between his fingers. He practically throws it at my feet, not wanting to get a single inch closer than he has to.
Just. One. Pinky.
Chains clinking, I bend to pick it up. It’s seen better days, whatever the tattered fabric once was, but I lift it to my nose and inhale until my lungs are full.
Like most scents, it explodes through my olfactory system—spreading through my nose and dripping down my throat—so potent I can taste it. Vanilla. Rosemary. And something powerful but delicate. Innocent even.
“How old is this?” I ask, taking another pull of the scent.
“Does it matter?”
No, I’m just curious.
Pulling the tattered cloth away, I wrap it around my fist and meet Alaric’s stare. “What’s in it for me?”
“If you agree, you’ll be bound to a Vow. Break it, and—”
“Yeah, I know what happens when you break it,” I assure him. “What’s in it for me?”
Alaric knows what I want. It’s the only form of currency that matters to me. He just has to decide if it’s worth it.
Is finding this…girl worth granting my freedom? Is whatever threat she poses worth releasing me? An imprisoned God with a fifty-year score to settle. If it is…that only makes this hunt more interesting.
Alaric’s jaw grinds, and he runs a hand over the tightened bones, watching me as if he’s weighing his options. Weighing the risks, the odds, and the consequences.
Then he grits out, “Name your price, Hound.”
Well, I’ll be fucking damned.
I can’t help but smile. It spreads slowly across my face—hellish and sated. “My price is freedom.”