“Darius has been dealing with the uprising.”
Zara knows warlocks are creatures of brutality and ambition. She knows we thrive on control and pain, feeding on the misery of others like it’s our birthright. But knowing is one thing; seeing is another. Now she’s seen warlocks turn on each other like wolves circling a wounded alpha, each trying to carve out a larger slice ofpower for themselves.
The most ambitious among them have resorted to unspeakable acts. They’ve been binding spirits to their will, slaughtering innocents for sacrificial rites, and unleashing curses designed to cripple entire bloodlines. The balance of our world teeters on the edge, the carnage spreading like rot in the wake of their ambition. And though I despise them for it, I understand it. It’s in our nature to destroy, to consume.
I’ve kept most of the recent atrocities from Zara, in case she felt responsible. The blood rituals, the betrayals, and the raw carnage that has left entire villages razed to the ground and upset the balance of our world were always going to happen, but Galen’s death expedited them. Zara doesn’t need to carry that weight, and I’m too fucking vicious to give a shit about it. She knows what I am, what we are, but she hasn’t seen the worst of it. Of me. Not yet.
And a selfish part of me wants to shield her from that reality for as long as I possibly can.
It’s part of why I sent Darius to deal with it.
He’s useful, loyal enough to keep in line, but desperate enough to do any dirty work without asking too many questions. Darius knows that failure means a swift end, but success might earn him the power he craves for his wife. It’s a careful balance, giving him enough autonomy to believe he and his wife have a choice, but never enough to think they could rise above me. Above us. Besides, if he falters, I’ve already calculated the acceptable losses and he’s part of them.
“Are you contemplating murder again?” Zara asks.
For a moment, I’m struck by how fucking terrifying she can be. It’s truly magnificent and the little witch surprises me with how effortlessly she wields that darkness inside her, how it dances in her veins like it was made for her. She doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t flinch, and for all her beauty and grace, Zara is a knife edge honed to perfection—sharp, deadly, and unrelenting.
And she’s mine.
Fuck, I’m in love with her.
“It’s not murder if they deserve it.”
“Darius isn’t that much of a problem,” she says calmly. “His wife is a bitch.”
That woman hates me with every fiber of her being, and for good reason. I took everything from her before I realized the value of what I’d crushed beneath my heel. Now, we’re navigating the uneasy waters of a new beginning, one where I acknowledge her as an equal, even if the tension lingers. She’s a complicated figure in my life, someone Zara doesn’t know about yet, and that’s deliberate.
Very deliberate.
Zara knows Calista hates her. She doesn’t know it’s because of what I did to Darius’s wife when I thought she was a worthless whore. Zara has no idea what Calista has endured because of me and the price she’s paid to secure her life. Galen too, but he’s dead and the fucker got off lightly.
It’s best for me if Zara doesn’t know all the gruesome details, and if the need arises,I’ll simply blame Galen for the mess with Calista. After all, dead men tell no tales, and they have no honor to defend.
“We can always kill them later,” she sighs.
“You're planning their murder already?” I ask.
“It doesn't count as murder if it's necessary. It won't be murder if I decide it's what we need to survive.”
Zara’s voice is laced with a certainty that makes my stomach tighten.
“You forget, I’m as dark as you. Maybe darker.” Her eyes flick back to mine. “We’ve endured an afternoon of misery, it’s about time we had some fun, don’t you think?”
“What did you have in mind?”
My tone is calm and my mind is racing. My dick’s throbbing and my thoughts are spinning. I’m tempted to fuck her here and now, against the wall, christening another surface.
“Kade?”
“Zara?”
Her glare sharpens, suspicion flickering in her eyes.
“I’m going to mark you.”
Fuck.
In truth, I’ve wanted this. Craved this. For weeks. I’ve stared at my mark in the small of her back, dark ink coiling beneath her skin like it was always meant to be there. My emblem, the sharp lines twisting into a crescent moon that sits ensnared by thorned vines, is carved into her in a way no one else will ever touch. The runes surrounding it pulse faintly, ancient words of binding and belonging that hum with my magic. A brand. A claim.
