Chapter 36
Nyx
It was done. I gulped in oxygen, my emotions a tangle of relief and sorrow and joy.
Relief that I was finally free of Nazaire.
Sorrow for the man he’d been—cold, calculating, incapable of love.
But threaded through it all was a wild, primal joy, so fierce I was shaking with it.
Cain had survived. He loved me. He’d claimed me as his mate.
It was as if my most secret painting, the story drawn only on my heart, had come to life.
Cain buried his face in my hair. “Don’t ever do that to me again.”
“Do what?”
“Let anyone put his blade to your throat. Or your fucking liver.”
Laughter bubbled up in me. “I’ll do my best.”
“You’d better.” His hands slid to my ass and squeezed.
I nuzzled his cheek. “Yes, sir.”
He drew in a ragged breath. “Fuck, I need you.”
Our mouths met in the kind of kiss where everything is fused, perfect—lips, bodies, hearts. When we broke for air, he frowned and swiped a tear on my cheek with his thumb. “You’re crying. But I feel you—inside—and you’re happy.”
Only then did I feel the tears streaking my face. “I am happy—so happy. Just emotional.”
His expression was both baffled and adoring, like figuring me out was going to be his life’s work. “Okay.”
“Cain,” snapped Talon.
Silver flashed around us. Dussault and his people had us surrounded and were advancing. The Maritime people had their weapons out in answer.
“Fuck,” Cain bit out. He shoved me in Perla’s direction. “Run.”
My hand went to the dagger on my thigh. A glance at Perla told me she was all right, although she’d come to her feet, one hand on the back of the bench.
She caught my eye, and then my quiet, self-contained friend spat out, “Trou d’culs.” Assholes.
Talon had already tossed Cain another blade. The four friends fought alongside James and Adrian.
Six against thirteen, and only a couple of the thirteen called this lair home. Dussault had clearly come not just to witness the challenge, but to take advantage of it. Nazaire must’ve contacted him as soon as he knew Brien was in the lair.
But for now, they’d left me alone. I eased the dagger from its holster and shot another glance at Perla. She brandished a silver switchblade she’d produced from somewhere, wordlessly letting me know she’d be okay. I nodded and circled the fighters.
Brien and Talon had each taken out a man already. Rodrigo and his friend Théo had teamed up against Cain. I slipped in behind them.
Cain’s gaze flickered, although he was too smart to give me away. But he wasn’t happy. I didn’t need the bond to tell me he wanted me to run, not fight. To save myself.
To Hades with that. We were mates now. We lived or died together.
I focused on Rodrigo, and, drawing my blade up, slashed it down toward the base of his neck, aiming to severe his spine.
A dirty, vicious kind of fighting. I sensed Cain’s surprise even as he stuck his blade through Théo.
Rodrigo ducked just in time and my blade sliced the side of his throat instead. A hot spray followed; I’d hit an artery.
Not good enough. It would weaken him, but if I didn’t finish him off, he’d heal.
He spun and lunged at me, teeth bared. I threw up my arm, parrying his strike with my blade—and suddenly, Cain was there, driving his weapon into Rodrigo’s chest.
He froze, shock widening his eyes.
Cain shot me a quick, toothy grin. Got him.
He jerked his blade from Rodrigo and together, we watched him crumple to the ground.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Twilight stake a man, too.
The odds were just about even now.
Then Talon called, “James! Behind you.”
But it was too late. When I turned to look, Dussault had staked the Maritime enforcer from behind. He jerked his blade from James’s back and crept toward Brien.
Twilight yelled a warning, but the tall blond primus had already swung around like he had eyes in the back of his head. He stalked forward, a dagger in each hand, a storm given shape and purpose.
“Was it you?” he spat out. “Did you order Nazaire to stake my mother?”
Dussault shook his head. “Order? No. But the enforcer was on Lilith Island with my permission.”
“To do what?” Brien demanded between his teeth.
Dussault smiled. “Whatever he could get away with,” he said, and attacked, one dagger aimed at Brien’s chest, the other whipping toward his face.
Brien’s daggers flashed, knocking one of the blades out of Dussault’s hand and forcing him to fall back.
The weapon flew toward Cain. He snagged it mid-air and slid it into an empty pocket.
When Maxime objected, Cain rounded on him. “Shut the fuck up. Your primus broke the rules of the challenge, not us.”
The older vampire scowled but backed off.
Around us, the fighting faltered as the clash between the two primuses hit like a shockwave—one of those instinctive, bone-deep signals that made everyone else pull back because the danger spiked.
By unspoken consent, the two sides drifted to opposite edges of the clearing, giving the primuses space, all of us waiting to see how the battle played out.
Cain pulled me behind him. This time, I let him. He was on edge, torn between protecting me and watching his friend battle for his life.
I rested my hand on his lower back and edged sideways until I had a clear view of the fight.
Dussault circled left, Brien shadowing him. Brien lunged; Dussault twisted away. The fight erupted—Dussault all cool precision; Brien a relentless, fluid force. Their strikes blurred, nearly too fast to follow.
Then Brien shifted, paused. A tiny changeup in rhythm.
Dussault attacked, clearly believing he’d found an opening.
He hadn’t.
Brien’s blade caught Dussault’s wrist mid-strike, cleaving it in two and sending his remaining dagger to the ground.
His second blade took an upward arc that tore through his opponent’s chest and burst out between his shoulder blades.
For a few seconds Dussault hung there, impaled, face contorted in a silent scream.
“Burn in the noonday sun,” Brien ground out, and yanked the blade free.
Dussault staggered, crashing to the frozen earth with a bone-jarring thud. His body convulsed once. He gave a single, inhuman groan that raised goosebumps all over my body, then stilled, blood blooming on his chest like a dark flower.
Brien stood over him, blades dripping crimson on the trampled snow. A thick smoke swirled around his long legs, fed by the slain vampires turning to ashes around us.
He snarled at what remained of the QCS upper hierarchy, his eyes rimmed a burning blue. “Anyone else?”
Every last one of them recoiled, Adam’s apples bobbing. “No, my lord,” they chorused.
Flames erupted from Dussault’s mouth and chest, licking over his body like hungry tongues until his body was nothing but charred fragments of ash and bone.
Brien raised a blood-slick dagger high. “Quebec City is mine,” he declared, voice echoing off the nearby mausoleums. “I claim it for the Maritime Syndicate.”
The QCS vampires stood frozen, statues carved from fear.
Lowering the dagger, he eyed each one in turn, taking his time, making sure they knew he was noting their faces. Their stares stayed nailed to the ground.
Finally, he jerked his chin. “My people will be in touch. Now get the fuck out of my sight.”