“Someone should.”
“Why?”
He stares at me. His gaze searches my face with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
“You’re reconsidering.” He lowers his voice. “My offer. You saw what I did to those escapees, and now you’re wondering if you made a mistake.”
I look at his hands. The blood crusted between his fingers, drying in the lines of his palms. The scarification channels that split open when he drains his victims, weeping power and death in equal measure.
Those hands killed two people tonight. Delivered a third to torture that lasted hours.
I ask the only question that matters.
“Can you do that to the Matron?”
Silence.
Then something unfolds that I’ve never seen before. An expression I didn’t think his face was capable of.
Kharvek smiles.
Not the half-expression I saw before—this is a different emotion entirely. Real. His scarred face transforms, brutal edges rearranging into something I have no name for.
Something in my chest seizes.
“Yes.” The word lands heavy, certain. “When the time comes, I can do exactly that to the Matron.”
Heat floods my chest. Something primal responds to that smile, that promise, that glimpse of the weapon finally pointed in the right direction.
“Good.” The words come out rougher than I intend. “Then we have an alliance.”
He extends his bloody hand.
I should hesitate. Should think about what this means—binding myself to a weapon, sealing an alliance with a monster, gambling everything I’ve built on a creature who kills as easily as breathing.
I take it.
His grip is hot—that same unnatural heat I felt in the Womb Chamber—and strong enough to crush my bones if he wanted. The blood on his palm smears against mine, warm and slick.
I hold steady.
“Third bell.” He steps back from me. “Tomorrow night. The storage alcove you mentioned.”
“I’ll be there.”
He releases my hand. Steps back. That smile fades, replaced by his usual mask of controlled violence.
“Clean that off.” He gestures at my blood-smeared palm. “Before someone sees.”
Then he’s gone, slipping out of the alcove with silent grace, leaving me alone with the smell of copper and the racing of my pulse.
I look at my hand. His blood—mixed with Sera’s blood, mixed with the blood of the men he killed—marks my skin in smeared patterns.
I don’t wipe it off immediately.
What is wrong with you?
The question has no answer. None that I want to examine too closely.
