40. Chapter 40
AMARIA
The hours after the laboratory blurred into each other. I paced until the carpet wore thin beneath my feet.
Four steps to the window. Four steps back. The wards hummed against the glass—a constant reminder that escape was a fantasy I couldn't afford. The Suppressor stood in the hallway, their presence pressing the air thin around me.
The transaction is complete.
He said in his father's cold voice.
I wanted to break something. Wanted to claw through the stone and demand answers he'd never give. Instead, I paced. Four steps. Four steps. Four steps.
The tether hummed—low, steady, that constant awareness of him on the other side of the wall. Still there. Still close.
Then the tenor of the tether shifted.
It came without warning.
I was still pacing, still burning, when—
Hands gripped my waist.
I gasped. Stumbled against the bedpost as phantom pressure spread across my hips, heavy and possessive. Fingers that weren't there traced the curve of my breast, slid up my throat. Breath that didn't exist ghosted just under my ear.
The kiss. The ridge in Liraeth. His mouth on mine, his hands pulling me closer like he was drowning and I was air—
My back hit the wall. I hadn't even felt my feet move.
He was right there. Just on the other side. And my body remembered what my mind was trying to forget.
Heat rolled through the tether like a wave from his desire. Raw and desperate and aching and hungry.
My breath caught. My pulse hammered. Between my thighs, pressure built—uninvited, undeniable.
I pressed my palms flat against the stone.
I bit my lip, fangs extending, and squeezed my legs together.
Inhale, and the heat flared. Inhale, it grew and spread, burning all thought and reason.
I reached down, trying to relieve the intense pressure building like a fire in my core.
Electricity crackled through my blood as I pressed.
He was there. Leaning against the same stone, breathing in the same rhythm, surrendering to the same yearning. His skin fever-hot, his control shattered, his thoughts echoing through in fragments—
Safe. She felt safe. The only time I've ever—
Then the texture changed.
Something slid over his presence. The raw need smoothing into something colder. Controlled.
He was pulling away. Shutting me out.
Safe.
The word stayed after the rest of him retreated. Lodged in my chest like a splinter I couldn't reach.
She felt safe. The only time I've ever—
And he'd cut the thought off. Buried it.
Because he already knew what I was just now catching up to—that "safe" was the thing I couldn't be for him.
Not here. Not anywhere. Every time we touched, reality frayed at the edges.
I'd drained the world once already. The Dead Zone was still spreading because of what my power had done, and his Mark was fused to mine, which meant every time he reached for me he was reaching toward the thing that could unmake him.
The princess didn't unmake anything. The princess healed and fit beside him like a key turning in a lock that had been waiting for her.
He'd been thinking about me—wanting me, burning for me—and then he'd remembered what wanting me cost. And he'd shut it down. Not because he didn't feel it. Because he did.
Because wanting me was the most dangerous thing he could do. And he knew it. And I knew it. And the knowing didn't make it hurt any less.
I shoved off the wall. Put distance between myself and the stone. The tether stretched—a dull ache behind my sternum—but I let it hurt. He was right to pull away.
That was the thing I couldn't say out loud. Not to Serenya. Not to Maxx. Not even to the dark.
He was right. And I hated him for it. But I hated myself more. Because I was standing here with my hand on the cold stone, my body still aching, knowing in my bones that if he placed his hand on the other side right now... I'd press back.
Even though I was the thing he needed to be safe from.
Morning light crept through the warded windows. My neck ached from sleeping against the wall, and my dress was twisted around my legs.
His door opened. His footsteps moved down the corridor—the prince off to perform his duties.
The bond stretched with every step. Not snapping—just pulling. A slow, steady ache settled into me as he walked further and further away.
Toward her.
I pressed my hand against my chest. Which was stupid and useless. Like I could hold the pain in place.
His emotions were shifting through the bond, the cold mask was settling and the performance beginning. He was looking at Vivienne. I knew it. Could feel the practiced warmth he was projecting, the careful control of a male playing a role.
I'd told him to go. Shoved him out. Slammed the door.
Funny how being right about something could feel exactly like being wrong.
The note appeared under my door a few hours later.
Serenya's room. Come when you wake. —M
Maxx's handwriting. Perfect penmanship, slanted, unmistakable. I held the scrap of parchment for a long moment, my chest tight with worry.
Are they ok?
I knew they should be. I'd seen Maxx in the courtyard. The King had promised house arrest, not execution. But knowing and believing were different things, and I hadn't seen Serenya since yesterday.
I dressed quickly. Grey wool again—they hadn't given me anything else. My Suppressor fell into step behind me the moment I entered the corridor, a silent shadow ten feet back.
Serenya's room was three doors down. The guards let me pass without comment.
I knocked once. The door swung open.
And I walked into chaos.
"Pinky out."
Maxx was perched on the arm of a velvet settee, gesturing wildly with one hand. His hair was a disaster. His shirt was untucked. He looked like he hadn't slept in days.
"You have to extend the pinky," he continued, demonstrating with an invisible teacup. "Or they'll think you're a barbarian."
Dreadscale stood in the center of the room.
He was holding a porcelain teacup.
It looked like a thimble in his massive hand. His fingers were curled around it with the delicate precision of someone defusing a bomb. A muscle twitched in his jaw.
"If I extend my pinky," he said, his voice flat, "the balance shifts. The ceramic turns to dust."
"Just—" Serenya was curled in a window seat, the Codex open on her lap, watching the scene with delight. "Pretend it's a very small skull. Be gentle with the skull."
Dreadscale's eyes slid to her. Then back to the cup.
He extended his pinky.
The teacup exploded.
Porcelain shards scattered across the carpet. Tea splattered Maxx's boots. Dreadscale stood motionless, holding the handle—the only surviving piece—between two fingers.
"The skull," he said, "is dead."
I laughed. Then giggled, my shoulders shook and I covered my mouth. Maxx stared at me. Serenya's pen stopped moving.
Dreadscale reached for another teacup—one of six lined up on the serving tray—and held it up to the light.
"This one appears defective as well."
He crushed it.
Tea exploded across his wrist. He didn't flinch.
I laughed harder. The sound bounced off the gilded walls, too loud, too real for this cage they'd put us in.
"Stop," I wheezed. "Stop, I can't—"
Dreadscale picked up a third cup.
"The structural integrity of palace ceramics," he observed, "is deeply concerning."
Crunch.
Serenya was giggling now. Maxx had given up entirely, sliding off the settee onto the floor, shoulders shaking.
I wiped my eyes. My stomach ached. My face hurt from smiling.
Four cups left. Dreadscale surveyed them with the gravity of a general assessing enemy troops.
A small sound interrupted the carnage.
Yip.
We all turned.
A dog sat in the doorway. The same one I’d seen the day the princess arrived.
It was tiny. Fluffy. White and gold, with enormous ears that looked too big for its head and a plumed tail that wagged with manic energy. It couldn't have weighed more than a loaf of bread.
It was staring at Dreadscale like he'd hung the moon.
"What," Dreadscale said, "is that."
"That," Maxx managed, still wheezing, "is Princess Vivienne's dog. I've seen it following her attendants around."
The dog trotted into the room. Crossed directly to Dreadscale. Sat down on his boot.
Yip.
Dreadscale looked down at it.
"Remove yourself."
The dog's tail wagged harder.
Yip yip.
"I am a scourge." Dreadscale's voice was utterly flat. "I am the shadow over the mountain. I have ended bloodlines. I have—"
The dog licked his hand.
Silence.
Dreadscale closed his eyes, and inhaled slowly. For a moment, I thought he might actually punt the creature through the window.
Then he sighed.
One massive finger descended. Scratched behind the dog's ridiculous ears.
"Fine," he muttered. "You may serve as my vanguard."
The dog's entire body quivered with joy.
Serenya made a sound like a teakettle reaching boil.
Maxx had tears streaming down his face.
I tilted back in my chair. Watching the most terrifying being I'd ever met gently pet a palace lapdog, and something loosened in my chest. Something that had been wound tight since the throne room. Since the laboratory. Since the madness of this journey began.
The dog yipped again. Dreadscale's finger continued its methodical scratching.
"If anyone speaks of this," he said, "I will end them."
"Speak of what?" Maxx asked innocently. "The fact that you've been adopted by a cotton ball with delusions of grandeur?"
Dreadscale's eyes promised murder.
The dog licked his wrist.
I started laughing again.