Chapter Seven
The Collar
Briana
The first horn breaks through Knox’s skin.
For one terrible second, no one moves.
Not Ari. Not Malichai. Not Aldron, with his ancient-vampire calm. Not Cruz, who usually has a smart remark ready for everything, including death. Not even me.
Especially not me.
I stare at Knox’s forehead, at the dark curve pushing through flesh like rage made bone. Blood beads along the base of it, sliding down his temple in a thin red line. His shoulders hunch, muscles swelling beneath his shirt, and the sound that comes from his chest is not a growl anymore.
It’s something older. Something that remembers labyrinths, sacrifices, and monsters worshipped in fear.
The silver collar sits open in the black velvet box.
The sight of it steals every ounce of air from my lungs.
Not because I imagine wearing it. Because I remember wearing something close enough.
Not silver. Not pretty. Not polished for effect.
The one they used on me was black leather with tiny silver hooks hidden along the inside.
It didn’t look like much at first. That was part of the cruelty.
It looked almost harmless until they buckled it around my neck, and the hooks bit when I moved too quickly.
Be still, pretty thing. A woman’s voice.
My hand goes to my throat before I can stop it, and Knox tracks the movement. His eyes go completely black, and the second horn tears through.
Aldron moves first. “Everyone back.”
No one argues. Chairs scrape. Glass rattles behind the bar. The lights flicker once, twice, then settle into a low golden hum that makes everything look unreal.
Knox takes one step toward the box, and the floor creaks beneath his weight.
“Brother,” Cruz says.
Knox doesn’t hear him. Or maybe he does and doesn’t care.
The thing standing in front of me is still Knox. I know that. I feel it in the ache behind my ribs, in the way his body stays angled between me and the silver collar, in the fact that even as his beast rises, he doesn’t reach for me.
But he is also not only Knox.
His horns curve upward from his skull, dark and sharp, gleaming with fresh blood. His face has changed, not fully, not into something else, but enough. Harsher bones. Wider shoulders. Bigger hands. The air around him presses against my skin until breathing becomes work.
A monster. A very fucking real one.
Not hidden under a human smile. Not pretending to be gentle while planning harm. Not civilized cruelty in expensive clothes. A monster who is losing himself because someone sent me a collar.
My fear tangles with something worse. Something warm. Something that has no business existing in the same room as that box.
“Knox,” I say, and his head jerks toward me.
Aldron’s voice cracks like a whip. “Briana, don’t.”
I ignore him. I am getting good at that.
Knox’s chest heaves. His hands flex at his sides, fingers thicker now, nails darkening into blunt claws. His shirt pulls tight across his back like it might split. Blood trails down one side of his face, but he doesn’t seem to feel it.
He looks at me like I am the only thing in the room. Maybe the only thing in the world.
That should terrify me, and it does. But it also steadies me. Because I know what the collar means to me, I know the memory it pulled loose. I know the way my body wants to leave, wants to curl into itself and disappear.
But I also know what it means to him. Failure. A promise from the monsters who touched me that they can still reach through walls and wards and people far stronger than me.
Knox is not only angry. He is afraid.
For me.
Of himself.
What happens if the beast decides safety requires destruction? I take one step forward.
Cruz swears. “Briana.”
“Don’t,” Aldron says.
Akasha whispers my name, and Knox snarls, but not at me. At everyone else.
The sound vibrates through the bar, and every glass behind me trembles. I should stop. I should listen to the supernatural creatures who know more about Minotaur rage than I do.
Instead, I take another step, and Knox’s entire body locks.
“Briana.” His voice is barely a voice. It’s gravel and blood and restraint, breaking one thread at a time. “Stay back.”
“No.” The word leaves me quietly.
His nostrils flare. “Please.”
There it is. That plea. The same one from last night. The one that stopped me when his eyes went black, and his fist broke the brick instead of doing worse.
Please.
My throat aches, and I stop two feet away, close enough to feel the heat coming off him, but not close enough to touch. Not yet.
“You told me my voice reaches you,” I say.
His jaw works. The horns make him look brutal. Mythic. Something that belongs in nightmares and old stories whispered in the dark. But his eyes are on mine. And he is listening.
Barely ... but barely is enough.
“My voice reaches you,” I repeat. “So listen to it.”
He exhales through his nose, harsh and uneven. The collar gleams behind him, and my gaze flickers to it. Bad idea.
Memory snaps like a trap waiting for something innocent. Cold hands at the back of my neck. Buckle pulled tight. Laughter. Someone is telling me not to fight because fighting makes the blood sour.
My knees threaten to fold.
Knox sees that, too, and a roar rips from him and the bar shakes.
He spins toward the box, and I know, I know, if he reaches it, there will be nothing left of the collar, the box, possibly the bar, and maybe anyone foolish enough to get in his path.
Including himself.
“Knox!” My voice cracks through the room.
He stops. One foot from the box. His back rises and falls with each breath. The muscles beneath his shirt bunch and strain. His horns nearly scrape the hanging light above him.
I swallow hard. “If you break that,” I say, “they win.”
His head turns slowly. Black eyes find mine, and I force myself to stand straight.
“They sent it to make me afraid. To make you lose control. To remind all of us that they can reach me.” My voice trembles, but I keep going. “Don’t give them what they want.”
For a moment, no one breathes. Then Knox laughs. It’s not a human sound. It’s bitter, broken, and terrible. “They sent a collar for your throat,” he says.
“I know.”
“They have your blood.”
“I know.”
“They want you back.”
“I know.”
The words are sharp blades, each one cutting deeper than the last. But I do know. I know all of it, and I am still here.
His claws scrape against his palms. “I can’t stand here and do nothing.”
“Then do something useful.”
His eyes narrow, but anger is better than losing him completely.
I point at the box with a hand that only shakes a little. “Find out what it is. What magic is on it? What message did they hide in it? Who touched it? Where it came from.”
Aldron goes very still. Krishka’s eyes sharpen. Akasha steps closer to the bar. But Knox doesn’t move.
I look only at him. “Break it later,” I say. “When it has nothing left to tell us.”
His breathing slows by a fraction. Not much, but enough.
The horns remain. The black in his eyes remains. But the wild edge of the room lessens, as the whole building exhales.
Cruz murmurs, “Well, damn.”
Ari whispers, “I love her.”
Malichai says, “Of course you do.”
I ignore all of them. Knox stares at me like I have reached inside his chest and closed my fist around something vital.
“Useful,” he says. The word sounds strange in his changed mouth.
“Yes.”
“You want me to be useful.”
“I want you here.” That slips out before I can stop it.
The room changes. Not with magic this time. Knox’s gaze drops to my mouth. Only for a second. Only long enough for heat to flare low in my stomach despite the silver collar, despite the fear, despite every terrible thing waiting beyond the walls of this bar.
His eyes return to mine. Brown bleeds slowly back into the black. The first horn retracts beneath his skin. The sound is awful. Wet and sharp. I flinch before I can stop myself.
Knox sees and pain crosses his face. He turns away as the second horn follows. Blood runs down both sides of his forehead now, disappearing into his dark hair.
No one moves until he is fully human-shaped again. Human-shaped. Not human. I know that now in a way I didn’t before. And it doesn’t send me running. Maybe that says something concerning about me.
Aldron steps forward once the pressure in the room eases. His gaze moves from Knox to me, then to the box.
“Krishka,” he says.
“Already working.”
The witch circles the silver collar without touching it. Akasha joins her, golden magic flickering around her fingers. Ari hops onto the bar because, apparently, sitting on furniture properly is against her religion. Malichai stays glued to her side. Cruz steps closer to Knox.
I stay where I am. My legs feel hollow, and my skin feels too tight. Knox’s blood drips onto the floor.
I look at him. “You’re bleeding.”
“It’s nothing.”
My eyes narrow, and his mouth shuts. At least he is learning.
I move behind the bar and grab a clean towel. My hands aren’t steady now. The adrenaline is fading, leaving me shaky and cold. I hate it. I hate that terror waits until after bravery to collect its due.
When I turn back, Knox has not moved. He watches me with the careful stillness of a man trying not to frighten a wild thing.
I almost laugh. Maybe I am the wild thing. Maybe we both are.
I hold up the towel. “Can I?”
His throat works. “Yes.”
I step close. Closer than before. Too close, probably.
His scent wraps around me immediately. Smoke. Leather. Rain-wet earth. Beneath it, blood and heat and beast. My body notices all of it because, apparently, survival has not killed my ability to make terrible decisions.
I reach up slowly.
Knox is tall enough that I have to stretch, and the movement pulls my sweater higher on my thighs. His gaze flicks down, then away so fast I would miss it if I were not watching him.
Heat crawls up my neck. Interesting. And slightly terrifying. But absolutely not the time.