Chapter 17
"War is here."
Renan's voice. I've barely cleared the inner gates—Iowyn's hand still in mine, her fingers twitching because she's noticed the eyes tracking us across the courtyard. Two initiates by the fountain. A handler near the gates. Someone on the third-floor balcony.
I don't care about any of them right now.
"Where."
"The Hollow." Renan's jaw is tight, his gaze fixed past me. "Didn't request an audience. Showed up twenty minutes ago with his full entourage. Set up like he owns the fucking place."
"Who let him in."
"No one let him. He walked in." Renan's mouth twitches. "Want me to start something? I can start something. Give me ten minutes and a distraction."
"No."
"Five minutes. No distraction."
"Renan."
"Fine." He cracks his neck, rolling his shoulders. "But if he touches your chair, I'm not responsible for what happens to his fingers."
I start walking again and Iowyn stumbles slightly—I'm moving faster now, dragging her with me, and I don't slow down. Renan falls into step beside us. His eyes slide to Iowyn, to her hand in mine, back to me.
"Huh," he says. His thread flickers—bright, eager. Delighted, the bastard.
"Don't."
"Didn't say anything."
"You were thinking it."
Renan grins, all teeth. "War's going to shit himself when he sees you walk in holding hands with the debt."
I don't answer. We're at The Hollow doors and Renan reaches past me to shove them open.
The room is full. I feel it before I see it—bodies, heat, the press of too many threads in too small a space.
Discord elite line the walls. War's people cluster near the front.
Their threads tangle together, silver and grey and that particular shade of deep red. Too much. Too loud. My temples throb.
And there, at the center of my own fucking war room, standing where I should be standing—
War.
He's mid-sentence when we enter. Doesn't stop talking, doesn't even glance at the doors.
"—Coin's alliance with Commerce gives them access to shipping routes through the northern corridor. If they move first, they control supply lines for three territories before anyone can—"
He's bigger than I remember. Broader. The kind of body that's built for crushing things, and he knows it. He gestures while he talks—broad sweeps of his arm, a step forward to emphasize a point, then another. Talks with his whole body. Fills the space. Crowds the room.
I hate him.
No.
Wrong.
I don't care enough about him to hate him. He's irrelevant. Background noise.
Then Iowyn's hand goes rigid in mine. Her fingers clamp down, grip crushing.
I look at her.
She's staring at War—not at his face, at his hands. The way they cut through the air when he talks. The way they swing too close when he steps forward.
She's not breathing.
War gestures again, arm sweeping out, and she flinches. Small and fast, her whole body jerking backward. She's not here anymore. She's somewhere else, somewhere with hands that move too fast and—
"Stop."
War pauses. The room goes quiet.
"What?"
"Stop moving."
His brow furrows.
He looks at Iowyn, then at me, then back at Iowyn. I watch his gaze track down her body and my jaw locks so hard my teeth ache.
"I wasn't—"
"You were." I step in front of her, blocking his line of sight. "Don't."
Silence. The Discord elite exchange glances. Two of War's guards put their hands on their weapons. Beside me, Renan shifts his weight forward, hoping.
War's expression changes—irritation first, then something working behind his eyes, then his face goes blank.
"Fine." He takes a step back, hands spread, slow. "My apologies. I didn't realize the debt was... delicate."
Delicate.
I'm across the room before I decide to move. Not touching him—worse. I'm just there, close enough that his guards are shouting and reaching for weapons and Renan is laughing somewhere behind me and I don't care. My face is inches from War's. Close enough to bite.
"Say that again."
War doesn't step back. His jaw tightens, but he doesn't step back.
Wrong answer.
The chair is in my hand and then it's not—Loss of control—already shattering against the wall three feet from his head and I'm still smiling, still close enough to count his eyelashes, and there it is. There. The flinch he tried to hide.
"Pick a different word."
A beat. War's eyes flick past me—to Iowyn—then back.
"...Valued."
I step back. Smooth my jacket. The smile stays.
"Continue."
He does. Slower now, hands at his sides.
I'm not listening. I'm standing in front of Iowyn and I can feel her behind me, her breath still wrong. Her threads are tight and grey, that particular shade that means she's looking for a way out. She hasn't said a word.
War talks about alliances. Borders. Forces massing. Coin consolidating power. He wants Discord to stand with him, wants my people, my territory, my resources.
He asks a question.
I don't answer.
He asks again.
Fingers curl into the back of my jacket.
I stop breathing.
She's not pulling. Not tugging for attention. Just—holding on. Her knuckles press into my spine and then her forehead drops against my back, just below my shoulder blade, and she stays there. Small. Quiet. Hiding behind me.
The woman who told me to fuck off in my own territory. Who called me a monster to my face. Who stood in my bedroom and didn't flinch when I put my hands on her.
She's hiding behind me.
Something cracks in my chest. I don't know what. I don't care.
War is still talking.
I'm going to remove his tongue.
He's moving again. Pacing while he talks, hands cutting through the air, stepping forward to drive home a point about territorial boundaries. He's drifting closer. Not on purpose. He doesn't even notice. His body just expands when he talks, fills whatever room he's in, crowds out everything else.
Three feet closer than he was.
Two.
Iowyn's grip tightens on my jacket.
"We're done."
War stops mid-sentence. "I haven't finished—"
"I don't care."
"The alliance—"
"Isn't happening today." I'm already moving, already reaching for her. "Get out of my House."
"Koshin—"
"Out."
He's smart enough to leave.
His entourage follows, and the Discord elite stay frozen until Renan jerks his head toward the doors. They file out one by one. Renan stays.
"Kosh."
I don't answer. I'm lifting Iowyn, pulling her against my chest, and she's not fighting me.
That's the problem. She's limp and passive, a doll I could pose however I wanted.
The fire that spits back at me, that refuses to break, that makes my blood run hot—gone.
Replaced by this terrified silence. This shell.
"Kosh, what—"
"Handle it."
"Handle what?"
But I'm already walking, carrying her toward the side passage where the corridors turn dark and narrow. Her weight is nothing. The walls press in around us and I find a door—storage room, doesn't matter—shove it open, set her down inside, follow her in, close the door behind me.
Darkness swallows everything except her breathing. Fast. Shallow. Prey breathing.
I fucking hate it.
I step into her space. She presses back against the wall but there's nowhere to go and I keep coming until I can feel the heat of her body, smell the fear on her skin.
She won't look at me. Her face is empty, wiped clean. That dead stare at the wall behind me.
I tilt my head. Watching her.
Her breathing gets faster. Shallow little gasps. She knows something is coming. She doesn't know what.
Neither do I.
I lean in and lick the side of her face. Slow. Deliberate. From jaw to temple, tasting the salt of her skin, the fear, the fury building underneath.
I didn't decide to do that.
The slap cracks across my face before I see it coming.
There she is.
"Fuck you." Her voice is shaking. Rage or fear—doesn't matter. Both. "What is wrong with you—"
My head snaps to the side. The sting spreads hot across my cheek and my hand is around her throat before I decide to move it. Her pulse slams against my palm. Her eyes go wide.
I could squeeze. I could—
My hand shifts. Releases. Finds her jaw instead. Grips hard enough to bruise.
I pull her closer.
And I laugh.
Low at first, then louder, spilling out of me in cracks I can't seal. She hit me. She actually hit me. This terrified little thing who couldn't say a word in The Hollow just slapped a Titan across the face.
"There she is."
"Let go of—"
I kiss her.
It's not gentle. My hand is still gripping her jaw and I take her mouth because I'm starving for it, all teeth and tongue and the copper taste of blood where she split my lip. She makes a sound against my mouth—fury, want, both—and I swallow it.
I pull back just enough to see her face. Her lips are swollen. Her eyes are wild. She's shaking and furious and alive.
She hit me. She's still in there—the fire, the fight, all of it.
I stop walking.
My cheek is still burning. I press my palm against it. Hold the sting there.
She hit me.
I liked it.
No—that's not right. That's too small. I want her to do it again. Harder. I want to make her so angry she can't stop. I want her hands on my face and my throat and anywhere else she wants to hurt me.
I lean against the wall. Close my eyes. Her taste is still on my tongue. Her palm print is still on my skin. And I'm standing in an empty corridor with my hand on my face like I'm trying to keep her there.
I am.
I am trying to keep her there.