My fingers shake and I hide them behind my back as I round the corner. Slowly, I approach, the large oak door standing ominously in the distance. I wipe the sweat from my wrist against my light skirts and grip tightly as my chest thumps. Once. Twice. The closer I draw, the heavier the dagger under my skirt weighs. The maids behind me chatter, but I barely hear the words they say. I try to hide it behind a show of boredom but the fear creeps up my spine and it is all I can do to keep going.
It takes an eternity, but I reach the door eventually.
“He’s not in,” the guard tells me when I start to open the door. There usually aren’t any, but after this morning, I understand why he has his chambers guarded. My fingers still by the door. Not in? This is when we have dinner. Every night. I didn’t factor his possible absence into my plans. Gods above. “Where is he?”
“Throne room. The reports from the prisoners came back. He’s off attending to it and said to tell you to wait for him.”
Oh no.
I manage a small smile, even as my body begins to tremble. “I’ll be back.”
He nods tightly and I start down the hallway in quick strides. “Oriana,” I whisper, and the woman detangles herself from the maids behind, rushing to match my steps. “Get Raya. And your nieces to the tunn—” No, no and no. It’s being guarded heavily now after Darrock’s escape. I didn’t think of that either. I cuss inwardly. “The Eastern gate.”
Oriana pales. “It’s the gate guarded with the most men—”
“Because they’re all humans. Raya is Alpha-blooded. She can…compel them.” There weren’t many werewolves to go around in Ashbourne, hence, the mix of humans and werewolves in Atticus’s guard detail, and the North gate is barely ever used, both by thieves hoping to steal from the royal coffers or the many guests who preferred the clean stone floors of the Northern gate to the muddied path of the Eastern gate.
“All of them?” she echoes as we reach the top of the stairs.
“No, just a few…” I whisper the message she has to relay to Raya and she listens attentively, a wild hope blooming in her eyes. But it is gone when she asks, “What about you?”
I smile, reaching for the dagger under my dress. “I’ll be there within the hour. If not…don’t wait for me.”
Gratitude shines in her eyes and she squeezes my fingers, lowering her head to kiss my wrist. “I’ll never forget.” Her gazed drops to my stomach and she smiles ruefully. “It’s a boy. It is why you eat so much.”
A smile blooms on the corner of my lips. “Be careful.”
She nods and I start down the stairs, dagger in hand. I hadn’t bothered with the billowing skirts tonight. What I have on can be kindled to the human equivalent of an underwear, but in Neredia, it still would be too many clothes. The red, translucent skirt stops a few inches above my ankle and it is by far, the most comfortable thing I own here. And obscene. It had been meant for Atticus’s eyes only. A gift before the gift of death. One I’d known would push him to the liquor he kept not too far from his bed.
Too bad.
As I snake down the corridors, an unusual silence stretches so thick, it settles in the back of my throat like a bitter after taste. There are…no guards. Not one lines the path to the throne room. I look around skeptically, reaching out what little I have of my awareness into my surroundings but I feel nothing. Hear nothing.
Something is not right.
My steps quicken and upon reaching the throne room, I push the door. It screeches loudly, echoing and Atticus’s head jerks up from the sword he toys with. My chest and heart collide with each other fiercely as I step in. “I brought you dinner and you weren’t there—”
“What do you have behind your back, dove?” he says casually. His tone is lighthearted, but his face might as well have been carved from stone. Panic claws at my throat and my courage cracks. I take a step back, my senses on high alert. He knows.
I let my hand drop to my side and in doing so, expose my dagger.
Atticus laughs. “You know, not many people succeed in trying to fool me.”
“Maybe you’re just not as smart as you think,” I say, unable to bear the weight of my feelings anymore.
His eyes twinkle, like every word I say is merely for his amusement. “And I suppose you think that will be more than enough to finish me off?” He nods towards the dagger in my grasp, a faint smile blooming on his lips. “You may think yourself trained but I have been fighting wars since before you were born. You delude yourself if you think you’ll leave this room alive and that, I must say, looks tempting on you. Dress up for me?” His eyes trail a line down my body and though, his sword has been polished clean to run me through, his desire for me remains.
I smile, flashing my canines. “It seemed appropriate. The perfect shade to hide any…discrepancies after our little chat.”
“Ah,” he laughs, and the next moment, he isn’t seated on the throne anymore. I feel his fingers wrap around my neck before I register his presence before me. Pure instinct drives me and I jerk up my hand, slashing his wrists deep and true.
He snarls sharply and drops me abruptly, holding his wrist like I have burned him. I still feel his fingers around my neck and my body hasn’t yet registered that he has let go. I try to think of what comes next but a fog clouds my mind, the sudden realization of how little I am, kneeling by his feet. How weak my grip is around my dagger. How terrified I am of him.
“Do you know why I killed Nadine?” His glare is so potent, I can almost feel its venom spreading and numbing every cell in my body that screams, Run.
He crouches low, his already healing hand loosely grasping his sword. “She took my love and patience for granted. She ran from me with her brother. She let him speak words into her ears, corrupt her mind towards me. She was going to take our children and run.” His shoulders curve inward. “I couldn’t let that happen, dove. I loved her and she didn’t trust me enough. She didn’t understand. No one does, except you. What it feels like to be truly…isolated from life while being a part of it.”
His words bring me back to my childhood and at my hesitation, Atticus grins, leaning forward to touch me. “It is why I am considering forgiving you. I cherish you, our love too much to kill you.”
I scramble out of reach, pointing my dagger at him. “You’re crazy. I don’t love you. I never will.”
But he doesn’t seem to hear me. He reaches into his pocket, retrieving a silver locket. “I was going to give you this tonight.” He pinches the side and it flicks open. When I don’t take it from him, he dangles it before my eyes. I expect to see a picture of myself and him, but on the right oval, there is an elegant scrawling with a single word. Name. Lucianne. “For our daughter,” Atticus adds. “I carved it myself.”
My free hand flies instinctively to my stomach. “There is no ‘our’! My—”
Atticus catches my chin between his fingers and squeezes so hard, pain spreads from the point of contact. He seems not to have a care in the world that my dagger is pressing dangerously against his chest. “I’m willing to make this work, dove. I’ll forgive you, give you another chance. It was perfect before he came. After I kill him tonight, everything will be as it was.”
His words slam into me, evoking fear and anger. Fear for Kier. Fear that if I somehow don’t fix this, he’ll die. Fear that I’ve already failed. The anger is primal, born from the need to protect my mate. Eliminate the threat.
Rather than aim for his heart, like he expects me to foolishly try, I slam my blade down, sinking it into his thigh. He jerks, surprise and pain flashing in the depth of his blue, insane eyes, and an angry cry erupts from my throat as I twist it, shredding his skin as I attempt to pull it free. If I lunged now, the momentum would be strong enough to get the blade through his heart. I suddenly miss having Nyx around. Consuming all that bane has made me as strong as a three-year old. I could use her strength right now—
Something cracks along my skull and the world around me shatters into bits of darkness and light explodes behind my eyes. The world rises to meet me in a brutal collision and I release a strangled whimper as I try to see past the dark haze and it doesn’t give.
“I’m sorry,” Atticus whispers, and I have the oddest feeling of his hands caressing my cheeks. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. You forced my hand.”
He calls frantically for guards to get the physician, but no one responds. I want to tell him there’s no one outside, odd as it may be that he doesn’t know that, but in my head, there is a relentless drumbeat of agony, a building pressure cresting higher and higher. I think I tell Atticus to get away from me, but my words are unintelligible. Telling my hands to move prove futile. Too slow. This is a crappy time to have a concussion. Goddess, how hard did he hit me?
I think…I think he leaves my side for a moment. And he doesn’t return for a very long time. When I open my eyes again, my head doesn’t hurt so much, though, the world still spins. Sorta. I sit up, squinting, and just then, he walks in again, his shirt bloodied and crumpled, an open wound leaking from his cheek.
He didn’t earn any of those from me.
Grabbing my arm roughly, Atticus pulls me to my feet, and though, I am disoriented, I am of enough presence to notice the throwing knife hanging from his belt. I have only one shot, and his neck is the least shielded place right now as he pulls me towards the towering doors. Hope surges, accompanied by all of the adrenaline I need to finish this.
My fingers on my free hand close around the blade, but Atticus hears when I draw it, because he whips around in the same moment I lift my hand.
He snaps, all intent of ‘preserving’ me fleeing from his mind, and he knocks me into the wall, wrenching the blade free from my grasp. Tossing it aside with a clatter, he begins to strangle me, lifting me of the ground, pressing me so intimately to the wall. The world around me begins to shrink and panic morphs into a desperation as I fight for air, my body thrashing in a futile attempt to break free.
The rasping of my ragged breath and Atticus’s angry words fills the air. I hardly hear him speak between my struggle and the pain. The world begins to roar in my head and I begin to choke on what little breath I have left.
In that moment, my gaze locks with his. I see a glimpse of something new in his eyes as he kills me. Regret. And then, it’s gone in the next second because blood splatters from his mouth. Dark brows furrow in confusion as he glances down at his chest, and the gaping hole in it. He coughs, his hands slackening around my neck and I greedily drink in as much air as I can, my lungs burning.
Atticus laughs, his teeth bloodied. “Promise me you’ll wear it, dove.”
I am confused until I feel the smooth, cold metal biting into my palm—the locket—and the powerful, wicked image of death standing behind him with fiery red hair and a ticked off expression of pure malice and hatred. How we didn’t notice Kier approach is one thing, another is the hand he has in through Atticus’s back, no doubt poised to take his heart out.
“I hope you rot in hell. For Nymeria. For Nadine. For Lloyd. For every sin. Burn,” I croak, my voice raw with emotion. Atticus crumples to the floor, dead as Kier pulls his hand back. I am shocked to find that Atticus, in fact, had a heart, and it bleeds red.
His vacant blue eyes stare at nothing, and I am haunted by the look on his face. He looks like he has been…liberated and that, is disturbing.
I look away from Atticus’s body when Kier enters my peripheral, cupping my cheek, turning it left and right as he scans for injuries. “You have a concussion, Jess—”
“I didn’t need your help,” I respond coldly, putting some distance between us. “I had it under control.”
Kier’s full mouth stretches thin. “Yeah? I didn’t notice, seeing as you looked halfway to dying.”
“That was my kill,” I snarl. “Mine.” Tears spring to my eyes and the headache triples. I’d been dreaming of it for days. Waiting for the perfect opportunity to kill him and feels his life slip away slowly. I wanted it to hurt. I wanted his death to last a while. A torturous, long time.
"It's okay to let someone else be the epic one for once," he teases, hazel eyes dancing with mirth, and for a moment, I forget everything he said to me. I forget that he doubted me; that he'd stared at me with disgust, and I bury my face in his neck, clutching his tattered, bloodied shirt as I hurl him closer, sobbing.
His arms pull me closer and he kisses my aching temple softly as he strokes my hair. "Shh, you're alright, love. I've got you."
That, of course, breaks the spell and I recoil. “Why exactly, are you here, touching me? I thought you hated me. I thought you couldn’t stand the sight of me. I thought—”
“I had to. I’m sorry. I wasn’t sure if Darrock was acting as a spy—”
“You had no fucking right to treat me that way!” I yell, crying. “You said such horrible things to me and…and…fuck you, Kier. I hate you. So what? You now believe this child is yours?”
He looks at me like I have said the most ridiculous thing in the world. “Was there ever a doubt?”
Every syllable chips at my composure and all I see, all I hear is, "Get off me."
One doesn't fake that sort of reaction. I'd felt the force of it in my soul. I still feel my heart breaking. I still feel the tightness in my chest as I hugged myself in the bathtub and cried. It was all a ruse?
As if plucking the thought from my head, Kier stutters, panicking. "It was Zephyr speaking. The last four months drove us insane. I'd never doubt you--bloody hell!" he yells suddenly, holding his bleeding nose.
Yes, I punched him. He's a complete idiot.