Chapter 30 Say the Wrong Thing Repeatedly #2
“Get. Out.” Her magic flared, the air around her crackling with power. “If the words don’t matter, then neither does this conversation.”
Kill her, the voice screamed. Kill her kill her KILL HER—
I grabbed the cloak, my hands shaking with the effort of not listening to the violent urges. Maybe distance was exactly what I needed right now. Before I did something truly unforgivable.
“Fine,” I said, slinging the cloak around my shoulders. “Enjoy your night with the lizard.”
I left without looking back, closing the door with deliberate softness when what I wanted was to blast it off its hinges.
The apartment had other bedrooms, of course. But I’d be damned if I’d wake Marlowe to make up another bed, or let anyone know that the fearsome Dark Lord had been kicked out of his own bedchamber by his wife, who preferred to sleep with a pink dragon.
Lightning flickered occasionally beyond the tall windows, illuminating the bizarre outlines of bone archways. This was the God Spire. I, Kazimir Blackrose, Chair of Dominion, was not supposed to skulk on a sofa like a cast-off dog.
Fitting, though, muttered that hateful whisper in my head. So weak. Why do we grovel? She should kneel.
“Shut. Up,” I whispered fiercely into the empty hallway. Excellent. Now I was scolding the voices in my head. My runes ached with the effort of fighting them.
After some frustrated wandering, I found myself in the small library, trying to lose myself in texts about agricultural magic and theoretical mathematics—anything unrelated to my current disaster of a life. But the words swam before my eyes, rearranging themselves into accusations.
Why are you with ME, Kaz?
Because you’re brilliant. Because you match me in ways no one else ever has. Because when you smile, it feels like sunlight breaking through storm clouds, and I don’t even care how cliche that sounds.
Because I would burn the world to keep you safe, but I have no idea how to repair what I’ve broken between us.
Three little words. Was it really so difficult?
Yes, it was. Because the last time I’d heard those words, they’d been followed by the bite of a knife against my skin, the searing pain of magic being carved into my bones.
I love you, my son. This will make you strong.
I pressed my palms against my eyes until I saw stars.
My mother’s voice—her exact cadence—echoing up from whatever pit I’d buried it in, dragged to the surface by the same restless thing clawing at my skull all evening.
The smell of blood and burning flesh as she carved each rune.
Her soft humming as she worked, as if mutilating her child was no different from embroidering a tapestry.
The night passed in a haze of restless pacing, failed attempts at reading, and the constant, maddening whispers. By the time dawn broke, I was exhausted, my temper frayed to the breaking point.
The smell of cooking food drew me to the kitchen.
I was utterly unsurprised to see Sebastian standing at the stove, expertly flipping the most perfect pancakes I’d ever seen.
Griffin sat at the table, watching with undisguised admiration.
Thorne leaned against the counter, a mug of something steaming in his massive hands.
They all looked up when I entered, then quickly looked away again. It was painfully obvious they knew about the fight. They’d probably heard the shouting. Villains have excellent hearing.
“Good morning, Lord Blackrose,” Sebastian said, his voice carefully neutral. “I hope you don’t mind. I thought I’d prepare breakfast to thank you for your assistance the other night.”
I grunted in acknowledgment, pouring myself a cup of tea. I’d almost forgotten about the incident outside the Gallows. It felt like a lifetime ago, not two nights past.
“These pancakes are incredible,” Griffin said around a mouthful. “How did you get them so light?”
Sebastian smiled. “Family secret.”
I tuned out their conversation, focusing on my tea. The kitchen door opened, and Arabella walked in, her hair damp from a bath. Our eyes met briefly before she looked away, her expression carefully blank.
“Morning,” she said to the room at large.
Sebastian’s face lit up. “I’ve made breakfast to thank your husband for saving my life the other night. Those ruffians would have done far worse if he hadn’t intervened.”
Arabella’s head snapped up. “What ruffians?”
Sebastian looked between us, suddenly uncertain.
A hint of color rose in his cheeks. “Five of them cornered me outside the Gallows. Lord Blackrose intervened. Even spared their lives when I asked, though I think he broke most of their bones first. I would have told you when I returned, but you seemed preoccupied.”
The silence that followed could have been bottled and sold as a weapon.
I watched the information sink in—Arabella’s expression hardened, her eyes flashing with renewed anger. So I’d spared the thugs at Sebastian’s request, but had tried to compel her? The comparison wasn’t fair—the situations were entirely different—but I could see how it looked to her.
Without a word, she turned on her heel and swept out of the kitchen.
“Did I say something wrong?” Sebastian asked, frowning.
I ignored him and followed Arabella into the hallway, catching up to her in three long strides. “Arabella, wait.”
She kept walking.
“Would you just stop and listen?” I reached for her arm, then thought better of it, letting my hand fall back to my side. “I’m trying to apologize.”
She whirled to face me, her eyes blazing. “Are you? Because it sounds like you’re trying to justify what you did.”
“I’m not,” I insisted, though part of me—the part being needled by the whispers—wanted to do exactly that. “I was wrong. I shouldn’t have tried to compel you. It was a breach of trust, and I’m sorry.”
The words were right, but my tone was all wrong—stiff, formal, lacking the genuine remorse I actually felt beneath the whispers’ influence. Arabella could tell.
“You don’t mean that,” she said quietly. “Not really.”
Before I could respond, she turned and left.
I watched her go, frustration building in my chest. “Shouldn’t we be having angry hate sex right now?” I called after her, the words escaping before I could stop them.
Arabella raised her hand in a rude gesture before disappearing down the stairs.
A small squeak drew my attention to the corner, where Thorne stood frozen, a look of absolute horror on his face. He turned and practically ran in the opposite direction, no doubt wishing he’d never witnessed this particular marital spat.
Somewhere behind my temples, that gruesome voice rumbled: Let her go. Let them all go. You need no one.
I pressed both palms to my forehead. “Thorne!”
He stopped mid-flight, shoulders hunching. When he turned back, his expression was carefully neutral—the look of someone trying very hard not to think about what he’d just overheard.
“My lord?” His voice came out slightly strangled.
“The boy. Pip.” I stalked toward him. “Any sign of him?”
Thorne’s relief at the subject change was palpable.
“Nothing yet, my lord. The shadow warriors are sweeping every level like you ordered, and Spire security is checking every room, closet, and crawlspace.” He paused, jaw tightening.
“We’ve also been monitoring all departures, as per your command that no one leaves until their transports are thoroughly inspected. ”
“And?” I could already tell from his expression that this hadn’t gone smoothly.
“There have been… grumbles, my lord. Complaints about overreach, delays in important business.” Thorne’s mouth twisted. “A few tried to leave anyway. The Merchant Prince of the Southern Isles was particularly vocal about his ‘diplomatic immunity.’ ”
“Was he now?” A cold smile curved my lips. “And how did that work out for him?”
“He’s currently enjoying the hospitality of the Spire’s holding cells while his ship is being very thoroughly searched.” Thorne’s own grim satisfaction showed through. “The shadow warriors found three separate smuggling compartments, though no sign of our missing servant.”
I nodded slowly, processing this. As Chair of Dominion, I had the authority to lock down the entire Spire—but that didn’t mean the other powerful entities here had to like it. Every hour that passed with no answers would erode my position further, give my enemies more ammunition.
I shoved the thought away. “Keep searching. If Pip is still in the Spire, I want him found.”
Thorne bowed and departed with considerably more haste than dignity, leaving me alone in the corridor with nothing but my spiraling thoughts and that damned voice in my head.
I let out a final, near-feral snarl, and stormed off in the opposite direction from Arabella, my cloak billowing behind me. At least I could always count on a good dramatic exit, even if everything else in my life was going to hell.