Awareness slams into me all at once—the red-washed room, the plush mattress beneath my back, the heat of two warm bodies pressed too close for comfort.
Pollock on my left. Orán on my right.
Their breathing is slow and deep. Their heartbeats synced with my own. And both are sleeping like men who believe themselves untouchable.
Which is the last thing they are, after what they did to me.
I remain still, cataloging them through scent and sound, mapping the presence of their power.
The Soul Serpent smells of leather, the frostbitten stillness of winter, and restrained violence. Like a snow-capped mountain under a bitter sky moments before an avalanche. He has leashed the wolf, but its presence, that of something ancient and predatory, promises even in sleep to deliver ruthless and terrible destruction if provoked.
On my other side, the Plague Caster’s scent is more disarming, with hints of pine, earth, and sun-warmed soil. There’s also the slight tang of budding spring and pollen, and his power, though quieter, is no less deadly. It hums with vitality beneath his skin, waiting patiently to do his bidding.
Memories come next—uninvited and vicious.
The bindings. Orán held me here until his brother arrived. The two of them cornered me. Orán giving permission—fucking permission—for his brother to slip into my mind and tear open places I’ve spent a lifetime fortifying.
Like my soul, my past and my secrets were theirs for the taking.
Any given moment is theirs to unearth and steal.
The thought lands fully formed and absolute.
Dead men. The both of them.
My jaw tightens. My fingers curl into the sheets, nails biting into the fabric as I fight the urge to strike while they sleep.
Could they live on without their hearts?
If I rip them out of their chests, would that be the end of them?
The beast inside thrashes to be let loose once again, though she’s also torn between instincts that should not coexist—the urge to tear Pollock apart and this obscene, irrational pull toward him.
To maim.
To fuck.
As though she can’t decide which.
But I can.
I force her down, not because the desire isn’t there, but because something hotter burns brighter through me. A wrath more fervent than lust.
Eridessa Wrathborn.
The name I was given has never made more sense than at this moment as I wake to the knowledge that Pollock didn’t just force me to relive my most painful memories—he watched them. Sifted through them as if my life were nothing more than an old-world relic. A film. A television show.
Like he was… what did they call it? Fucking channel surfing.
Switching stations at will. Dropping into whatever part of my life he wanted to see. Rifling through the most painful moments on a whim.
As if there would be no consequence for tearing through my goddamn mind.
And I remember everything.
Every fragment he siphoned. Every memory he touched. Every moment he made me relive—pushing, guiding, forcing me deeper when I tried to pull away. He wouldn’t stop and kept urging me further back, forcing me to relive things I’ve spent a lifetime trying to bury.
Raping my mind—and I will not allow that truth to be dulled or softened by fate, or bonds, or whatever divine excuse he thinks shields him.
