Chapter 7
MALAKAI
Ishould stop being surprised by anything the little witch says at this point, but my bride-to-be continually confounds me.
Aveline professes to be distressed at my ceremonial armor, but the look in her eyes when her gaze brushes against my bare chest is anything but dismayed.
It is interest, and heat, and I’ll be damned if I put something else on tonight, just to have her look at me like that longer.
“Do you know what a shadow-wyrm is, Aveline?” I ask her, needing a reason to hear her speak again. Needing her to look at me.
“No, and I also did not know where the dining room is, but lo and behold, I’ve found it.” Her pretty eyes narrow. “No thanks to you.”
That surprises me. “You’ve dined here hundreds of thousands of times.”
Aveline stops short as she regards me icily. Until, that is, her gaze drops lower—then that heat blooms there again, turning her cheeks a lovely rose.
She is beautiful, this bride of mine, and it strikes me right to the heart.
I have loved her over a thousand lifetimes, a thousand times, but this is the first I’ve seen this version of her, and for that?
I am lucky.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she says, and I can tell from the way her lip trembles that I’ve offended her somehow.
Again.
“Because you are…” I trail off, every comparison inadequate. There are no words for how I feel about this woman. “You are mine.”
Her eyes flash with anger, and I realize I’ve misspoken yet again.
I may know her soul, recognize the very fiber of her existence, but I do not know her.
Yet.
She’s silent, and I step towards her, wanting to hold her, wanting her to understand.
I am herding her toward the table, but her posture i anything but tame.
Every shadow dancing at her ankles makes her flinch, and the complicated hairstyle the castle forced her into weighs heavily on her elegant neck.
Aveline has traded a cage of ducal responsibility for a luxurious cage of my making, and the realization hits me too late as her breathing suddenly hitches, turning shallow and rapid.
Her eyes widen, darting frantically around the dark corridor as if the living walls are actively closing in to suffocate her.
Her skin goes entirely pale, then red blotches suffuse her chest and neck.
She is hyperventilating, her small hands clawing at her own throat before her fingers dip deep into the hidden pockets of her silken blue-black gown.
With a sudden, desperate lurch, she wrenches out the blunt, pathetic little brass letter opener.
“Do you often carry a letter opener in your dresses?” I ask, my voice low and gravelly, trying to soothe the sudden, terrifying spiral of her panic. I step closer, reaching out an arm. “I can open things for you, if it is that much of a concern—”
Before I can finish, she strikes. She presses the cold metal directly against the center of my bare chest, right over my pounding heart.
I do not flinch. I let her do it, entirely curious as to what it is she has planned, my large fingers gently wrapping around her slim, trembling wrist to anchor her should she lose her footing.
If she needs to do this to feel control, then I will let her.
The contrast is agonizing; my skin is burning hot, and her weapon is freezing brass, but it cannot even pierce the surface of my flesh.
And that is the exact moment the final thread of her control completely snaps.
A choked, sob-like gasp tears from her throat as she stares at where the metal meets my chest. The devastating understanding hits her like a physical blow. Her only line of defense is entirely useless against an Elder God.
She has no leverage.
No physical power.
She is completely, terrifyingly helpless in a sentient castle that obeys my whims, wearing a dress that has its own opinions.
With me.
A panic attack claims her entirely, tears violently spilling down her cheeks as she shakes so hard the letter opener rattles against my skin.
She glares up into my eyes, hers filled with tears.
“I am my own!" Her voice is raw, a desperate ruin that echoes off the vaulted ceilings. "I am no one’s but my own.”
The words are vicious, poison in each syllable, and the pain on her beautiful face is as evident as the break of day. Her chest heaves as she takes a shaking breath. “I may not have been more than a token to be married off to my family, but I am not theirs anymore, and I am not yours.”
Before I can even fathom formulating an adequate apology, she wrenches her wrist from my grip. She turns, flying away from the dining room, completely blind with panic.
She runs, her silken blue-black skirts gathered frantically in her white knuckles, the sad little brass knife clutched tight as she flees my presence.
I stare at her, the floorboards of the manor trembling as though Aveline’s anger belongs to it. A door slams somewhere in the house, then another, and another, as if my keep is shutting me out with its own magic.
Another door slams, this one shaking the walls of the house itself—and I startle out of my reverie, realizing Aveline’s fled the safety of my manor.
She’s not safe out there, not with things as they are, not with whatever has caused me and my brethren to wake from our hundreds years of slumber.
Especially not at night.
Especially not in the Elder Forest.
“Aveline,” I roar, fear making the light flicker throughout the room, bouncing strangely off the gilt chandeliers, skittering away from the pockets of shadows that writhe in the corners.
I tilt my head, a thought forming, reasons for why my brothers and I have been brought back to this plane flitting about at the strangeness of the light.
Another door slams overhead, the house chiding me for not moving fast enough.
The house, as ever, is right.
I pull the darkness towards me, and I go after her.
Wherever she’s headed, she will not be alone.