“I made you, Your Highness. I'm the architect of everything you are.”
“Fuck you.” The words came through clenched teeth. Through pain that wanted to drown me. “You're nothing. Just a parasite. Feeding on grief.”
His expression shifted. Admiration twisted into something darker. Something that looked like disappointment mixed with rage.
“Perhaps.” He set the knife down. Picked up something else. Brass knuckles. Old. Military. Stained with rust that probably wasn't rust. “But I'm the parasite that won. That's what matters.”
The first punch caught my jaw. Snapped my head sideways. Rattled teeth. Filled my mouth with copper and the taste of my own failure.
The second hit my ribs. Cracked something. Maybe several somethings. Air exploded from my lungs. Wouldn't come back. Drowning on dry land.
Third. Fourth. Fifth.
Methodical. Controlled. Each blow calculated for maximum damage without unconsciousness. He'd done this before. Knew exactly how much a body could take before it shut down. Knew how to keep you awake and screaming.
He wanted me awake. Wanted me to feel every second. Every crack. Every break.
“You think you're fit to rule?” He punctuated each word with impact. Fist to ribs. Fist to kidneys. Fist to anywhere that would hurt but not kill. “You and your pet soldier? You'll burn this empire to ashes.”
I couldn't answer. Couldn't do anything except hang there and bleed and try to remember how to breathe through ribs that were definitely broken now. Multiple fractures grinding against each other with every shallow gasp.
“Look at you.” He grabbed my hair. Yanked my head up. Forced me to meet his eyes. “Broken. Bleeding. Helpless. This is what your love did. This is what caring costs.”
I forced my working eye to focus. Forced words through broken lips that were already swelling shut.
“At least I'll burn it honest.”
The smile that spread across his face was beautiful. Terrible. The kind of smile that belonged on angels before they fell.
“There it is,” he breathed. “There's the fire your mother had. The thing that made her dangerous.”
He released me. Stepped back. Studied me like art. Like I was his masterpiece and he was deciding if I was finished or if I needed more work.
“You could have been magnificent,” he said softly. Like he meant it. Like he genuinely mourned what I could have become. “You could have been me.”
“That's the point.” I managed. Tasted blood. Swallowed it. Felt it slide wrong down my throat. “I'd rather die than become you.”
“Oh, Sebastian.” He wiped blood from his knuckles. Almost tender. “You already are. You just haven't accepted it yet.”
“No.”
“Yes.” He moved back to the table. “You hunt in darkness. Kill without hesitation. Hide behind a mask while you deal violence to those you deem worthy. How is that different from what I do?”
“I don't murder mothers.”
“Semantics.” He lifted something from the table. Metal. Long. A brand. The Devereux crest at the tip, all sharp edges and cruel angles. “Everyone murders something. You just prefer your victims breathing.”
He set the brand in a torch mounted on the wall. Flame licked metal. Turned it orange. Then red. Then white hot. Heat radiated across the room. Made sweat break out on skin that was already slick with blood.
“Let me give you a crown worthy of your legacy,” he said.
Horror flooded through pain. Cold. Immediate. The kind of fear that lived in your spine and made you understand exactly how small you were.
“No.” I pulled at the chains. Metal bit deeper. Blood ran warmer.Fresh wounds opening on top of old. “Don't. Don't you fucking dare?—”
“Your mother wore the real crown,” he continued. Like I hadn't spoken. Like my fear was just background music to his symphony. “You'll wear mine. A reminder of who really rules this kingdom.”
The brand glowed. Ready. Hungry. White hot metal that would sear through skin and muscle and mark me permanently. Make me his in a way that would never heal.
