“Come on, Vespera's little bitch. You can do better than that.”
Both of them are too far gone in their hatred—dark and light colliding, both dangerous in their own way. Malriks fights like a man who welcomes death, and Darian is lost in himself.
I’m stuck in the middle of it, my heart is pounding, my chest is aching, and I’m sure the pain I am starting to feel isn’t mine. They need to stop soon, or one of them is going to end up dead on my floor.
“Enough!” I yell, stepping forward, but once again they ignore me.
My throat tightens, each breath coming slower than the last. My vision blurs around the edges, the sounds of fists hitting flesh dulling beneath the growing pressure in my head. I try to focus on them, on anything, but my body’s locking up, frozen as though something inside me has severed.
This pain… it isn’t mine. It’s not Malriks either.
Ronan.
The moment his name ignites in my mind, it scorches through me like molten fire. My legs give out, and I collapse to the floor, a ragged, painful cry ripping from my throat. Agony twists through my stomach, a white-hot brand burning outward, spreading through my chest until it feels like my ribs will splinter under the weight of it.
I clutch my stomach, shaking violently as if something inside me is clawing its way free. The fire sears through me, scorching from the inside out, and all I can do is let out a torn, primal scream that tears through the silence.
My heart is splintering, every beat a reminder that something is wrong with Ronan. So, so wrong.
“Little witch, what’s wrong?”
His voice cuts through the fog—gravelly, sharp with panic—but I can barely register it. My body is shaking in his arms, curled in on itself as if it might protect me from the agony ripping through my core.
I feel Malrik holding me close to him, his hands that were capable of such violence now quivering as they stroke my face. Gentle. Careful.
Uncharacteristically soft.
But I can’t speak. I can’t answer him.
All I know is pain. It’s endless, consuming, like my soul is being ripped out of my body piece by piece. I try to focus on his touch, the scent of his blood orange and honeycomb scent that clings to him, but even that is drowned beneath the burning in my veins and the panic clawing at me.
I can feel Malriks' lips press to my skin, but it’s still not enough.
Another scream tears through my throat, raw and strangled, as another wave of pain crushes me from the inside out. Everything inside me is burning.
Ronan. God, she’s hurting Ronan.
She’s hurting him because of me.
A sob escapes me, full of panic and guilt. Nobody should suffer from being involved with me, especially not him.
Time blurs. Minutes. Hours. I can’t tell.
The pain doesn’t stop—it only slows, fading into something dull. A buzzing in my skull that finally begins to lessen, like the connection between us is dimming just enough for me to breathe again.
But it leaves me cold and empty.
“Ravena, look at me.”
I open my eyes slowly, and there he is.
Malrik, kneeling on the ground with me in his arms, crimson eyes glowing like embers in a wildfire. Always so wild, chaotic, so untouchable. But now?
Now I am seeing something that shouldn’t exist on his face—cracked right through the madness.
Worry.
Not rage. Not obsession. Just fear for me.
