Chapter 19
Florienne
What grows from pain blooms most beautifully.”
— ETCHED ON AMARA’S STATUE
Atwisted sense of déjà vu hits me as the Baron drags me into this dark, dead place and bids me to lie down.
It’s not an altar but a cleared ritualistic floor space surrounded by the bones of old sacrifices.
Signs of Kasaros are everywhere, suffocating me.
Hope seems to flee, but I don’t let it. Shadows distort and dance around us as I force my body to go limp.
I let him believe my spirit is broken—another skill I learned in the Pen.
Sometimes, appearing weak is the strongest strategy. I’ll find my moment.
For a fleeting moment, I am convinced the Baron is Kasaros himself, kneeling there with a cruel smile playing on his lips.
But it isn’t. It’s someone who devoted his life to the Trickster God, being his bludgeoning hammer.
In this realm, war is rewarded. The Bride Hunt is the game, and for The Baron—I am the ultimate prize.
Men like him don’t like to be handed their gifts. They want to feel like they’ve earned it. How else does one justify such inglorious, violent acts in the name of entertainment?
I watch as he removes his coat. The placket of his breeches is already unfastened and flapping, and his tucked shirt is a hindrance. He snarls as he pulls the hem and struggles with the buttons.
The Baron’s eyes are no longer dead and cold. They glint with savage triumph as he looms over me, pausing his undressing to trace his fingers over the delicate curves of my face. I flinch, bile rising in my throat.
“At last,” he purrs, “You’ve led me on quite the chase, my dear.”
I want to spit in his face, to claw at his eyes, but my body won’t obey. The oppressive aura of this unholy place weighs on me like chains.
His hand travels lower, ghosting over my throat, down to my heaving chest, where he parts Drayven’s shirt collar.
“Such exquisite markings,” he murmurs, tracing the badges of mastery marking my skin. “I look forward to exploring every one.”
A whimper escapes, and I hate myself for it. Where is my fire? My strength? A fat fingertip lingers on the golden rosebud marking at my sternum. A jolt of revulsion shoots through me.
The Baron’s hand slides lower, cupping my breast through the cotton.
I turn away, hoping to focus on something, anything else.
Choosing where to look is the only freedom I have left.
The obsidian throne stands cold and empty behind him.
He grabs my jaw and forces my attention back to him.
His rancid breath is hot on my neck as he whispers, “You will submit. You will bear my children. And you will watch as I reshape this world in my image.”
Tears sting my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. I won’t give him the satisfaction. Ten years in the Pen, and I haven’t cried since the day I arrived.
“Remember your promise,” he reminds, easing back on his haunches. He drags me roughly toward him. “Part those thighs, my queen, and the rest of your little pet Vespers will remain unharmed.”
I close my eyes and hear the rustling of his shirt coming off. Rough hands part my knees, fingers digging into my flesh. I feel the heat of his body as he shuffles between my legs, and I brace myself for the inevitable.
“Fight, Flori. Fight like hell!”
My eyes fly open.
Drayven?
He’s not supposed to be here. I told him to—there, shadowed in the arched doorway, and imprisoned by thorns. Wet, maskless, and scratched up. His broad chest heaves, blood and rain glistening on his leather and skin. His eyes burn with a fury I’ve not seen for a decade.
My throat clogs with emotion.
Demaya, also battered and bruised, runs in. She takes stock of the situation and locates Dray’s fallen scimitar, then uses it to start hacking at the unnatural restraints—to free him. So he can come to me. Because he’s doing what I asked. He’s fighting for us.
Drayven bellows something else, but no sound arrives.
Am I imagining this? Is this my fantasy, my escape?
My fingers twitch at my side and scrape my tiara. I hadn’t noticed it fall.
Strangely, the Baron doesn’t see Drayven beneath the archway.
I am reminded of my first experience with Kasaros in the flesh. When he walked through the nemeton, bored yet resigned to relaying the rules of the game to every bride, forcing a different version of his display into their minds.
The Baron thinks we’re alone. He thinks he’s won. He leans over me, intent on ripping open my shirt as he’s torn open his. His hairy chest is exposed and inches from my face.
Scars.
His torso is riddled with long, thin, faded scars—thicker on one end and lighter on the other. Self inflicted. Just like Drayven’s.
Truth hits me.
The uneasy, familiar feelings I had around the Baron make sense now. His cold, dead eyes. His obsession with me. The things he said outside—he’s the previous Huntsman.
The one who tried to kill Dravyen. Twice.
With a snarl, I snatch up the fallen tiara and smash it into his face. The brittle thorns shatter, embedding themselves in his flesh and my palms.
He howls in pain, staggering back, landing on his ass with his bulbous dick hanging out of his pants. My upper lip curls. I recognize that disgusting cock. He was the first volunteer for my lessons in the Pen.
My shriek of outrage is torn from a deep, primal place within my soul.
“YOU!”
Blood streams down his face. Mine drips from my wounded palms. I scramble to my feet, my legs shaky but holding firm as I stand over him. How much of this has been by the Trickster God’s design? How much by the Baron’s?
The Baron sputters, “You dare—”
“I dare everything,” I hiss, thumping my chest. “My blood, my body, my destiny—mine to control. Not yours. Not Kasaros’s. MINE.”
He lunges for my ankle. I sidestep, my body moving with a grace I’d forgotten I possessed. Every lesson and trial I endured in the Pen rushes back to aid me. It reminds me that I’m strong. I am not alone. It reminds me of where I came from, who helped me, and who I promised I would lead.
He climbs to his feet and lunges for me, but I run. I stop before the throne and twist toward him, bloody palm out. He halts an inch before his face hits my hand, chest heaving with a guttural breath. He hasn’t even bothered to pluck the thorns from his skin or tuck away his flaccid dick.
“Pathetic,” I mumble.
“I earned this!” he barks, thumping his chest. “I will not wait any longer.”
“Then, by all means,” I say, holding my hand steady. “Walk forward.”
He won’t do it. He knows my blood is special.
The eerie silence in the temple is broken only by our ragged breathing. Demaya and Drayven continue to struggle free from the thorns in my periphery, but still, the Baron doesn’t seem to notice.
He narrows his eyes, assessing me with newfound wariness. I see the gears turning in his twisted mind, weighing his options. He still believes we’re alone. Thinks I’ll come to my senses… just like I always have around him.
“You forget your place,” he snarls, breath hot on my hand. “I am your master, your king. You will submit!”
I laugh, cold and mirthless. “No. I am the queen. And I bow to no one.”
He surges forward with a roar of rage, reaching for my wrist. But I step forward too.
My slick palm connects with his face, and instantly, my blood sings.
It courses through my veins, pulsing with ancient power.
The Baron’s eyes widen as my blood seeps into his skin, spreading like a virulent poison.
He claws at his face. “What have you done?”
I watch in horrified fascination as his flesh begins to wither.
His skin shrivels and cracks, turning ashen gray.
He lets out an inhuman shriek as his body contorts, collapsing in on itself.
The Baron’s eyes lock onto mine as the last of his life force drains away.
There’s fear there and something else—a grudging respect, perhaps.
His lips move, forming words I can’t quite catch.
When it’s over, all that remains is a miserable heap at the foot of the obsidian throne. Disgust wells up inside me, not just for him, but for the circumstances that led to this moment. With a swift kick, I scatter his remains across the cracked stone floor.
Seeing my blood, a part of me, be so destructive has left me feeling uneasy. Wrong.
My gaze is drawn to the throne, its dark surface gleaming with twisted promises.
I shudder at the thought of nightmares that will surely torment me after seeing it.
But rather than run from it or lash out and destroy it, I walk forward.
I climb the dais. One step. Two. Three. Each feels heavy and significant—the air thrums with power—until I arrive, toe-to-throne.
I hesitate for a moment, then steel myself and slam my bloodied palms down on the armrests.
“You don’t frighten me anymore,” I declare.
A jolt of energy surges through me. The temple trembles, and dust rains down from the vaulted ceiling. I lift my chin, turn, and sit. The icy surface meets my thighs. I stare defiantly into the shadows swirling around me. Let them come. I am ready.
A cry of triumph echoes through the chamber. Drayven breaks free from his thorny prison, Demaya’s blade clattering to the ground beside him. I hear it all.
Whatever spell had been cast over this chamber is released.
Time seems to slow as Drayven runs to me, eyes locking with mine. His expression is a storm of emotions—determination, relief, fury, and something else—pride—as he falls to his knees at the foot of the dais.
“Flori,” he chokes out. “I’m sorry.”
I raise my brow.
“About everything,” he elaborates. “I should have told you from the start. Should have trusted we’d get through this together.”
“Yes, you should have.”
“You saved yourself.” His smile is sweet, yet sad. Lost. “You didn’t need me.”
I’ve never seen him so unsure of himself.
It occurs to me that I’ve felt so sure of myself, so needed, all these years because of my special blood.
Even before that, I was provided for and treated with care as a young girl because I might one day grow into a fertile woman.
For an orphan boy with nothing to offer but his love, he sacrificed even that to keep me safe.
Well, he thought he did.
He thought becoming Kasaros’s Huntsman would ruin my opinion of him forever.
I let him sweat for a moment. Let him think I don’t need him or that I’m angry.
I am. But not at him. Sort of. Well, yes, I’m angry he kept his presence a secret from me all these years.
But no, I blame our stupid world for the danger I was just in.
I blame the God whose throne I sit on. Kasaros doesn’t care who claims me and becomes king.
He only cares if he loses this wager between us.
But I don’t see this as a loss. The game isn’t over—not yet.