Page 59 of She Who Holds My Wrath

When the light bends over a smile I know far too well, that very dread settles in deep. “Hello, little flower.” His voice skitters down my spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Not from the cold, but from the sickening familiarity of it.

“Don’t call me that,” I spit, my voice shaking despite the venom behind it.

“Well, that’s no way to speak to your saviour now, is it, Daisy?” Kaelith purrs, stepping in front of me. His lips curve into something that might have once been charming, before it rotted. He steps closer until the flame reveals the faint shimmer of constellations in his eyes. Like stars trapped in soulless, black glass.

Saviour. The word almost makes me laugh. This crazy asshole has me chained up in a dungeon, and he’s calling himself my saviour? I thought he was unhinged before, when he tried to convince me to leave Korithax for him, but this is an entirely new level of delusion.

I frown at him but stay quiet. Silence feels safer. I learned a long time ago that men like Kaelith thrive on reactions, on weaknesses they can twist into obedience. I might have had a smart mouth with Korithax, but he never truly wanted to hurt me. Kaelith is different. I don’t know what he wants, which makes him far more dangerous.

So I keep still, keep my head down, and play it safe. Even if it means making myself look small, timid and helpless.

“Why?” I whisper, pitching my tone soft, adding a tremor that isn’t entirely faked. “Why am I here, Kaelith?”

“I told you,” he says, with a bright, unsettling smile. “I’m saving you, silly.” He places the torch into a holder on the wall beside me, illuminating us both. His gaze lingers on me with unnerving intensity. “I have a proposal for you.”

I swallow hard against the dryness in my throat. “What kind of proposal?”

“Marry me.” He says it like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His tone is casual, light, amused even. As if he’s making casual conversation instead of demanding my hand while I hang from his chains.

For a heartbeat, I simply stare at him, certain I’ve misheard. Then a laugh bursts out, harsh and incredulous. “Marry you? Are you insane?”

He doesn’t even flinch, just shrugs as if he’s speaking perfect sense. “You are an unmarried queen, alone in a war you’ll never win. But together, we can win it all.”

I frown at him as his voice lowers to something I know he believes to be persuasive. I’ll admit, it is coaxing, slightly hypnotic, even. “You have enemies you can’t defeat. And allies who whisper their loyalty to you, yet already kneel before other thrones.”

“Who?” I bite.

“Me.” The word settles heavily between us. His smile is so malicious that I instinctively recoil from him. My breath catches as I stare into his soulless eyes, looking for any trace of humour. But there’s none. Nothing there but the smile of a madman who believes he’s the hero of his own story.

“But… you said they attacked you,” I whisper. “You stood by us in the throne room at the coronation.”

He chuckles darkly, stepping close enough that I can feel the warmth of his breath against my cheek. His fingers rise, brushing a strand of my hair behind my ear. The gesture feels wrong, intimate in all the ways that make my stomach feel weird. Not again. Not again. Not again.

“Oh, you silly, naive little thing,” he murmurs, his tone almost gentle, as if he’s indulging a child rather than mocking me. “This is why little girls shouldn’t try to play queen. I stood beside you because I had no choice. If I hadn’t, Korithax would’ve gutted me where I stood.”

He paces in front of me, and the sight of it makes me uneasy. Right now, he’s the lion, and I’m the mouse. And I freaking hate it.

“But after that oh-so-horrible incident,” he continues lightly, “you know, the one where your beloved was killed.” A faint smile tugs at his mouth, and it takes every ounce of me not to scream. “Once you were left broken and alone, I saw an opportunity.”

He lifts one shoulder in a casual shrug, as though betrayal is nothing major at all. As though he hasn’t condemned not just us, but his own people. “I chose the winning side.”

I all but roll my eyes at him. “So, what? You’ve captured me to prove your alliance to the Six? Marrying me won’t do you any favours, Kaelith. If you haven’t noticed, this is happening because of me.”

He laughs again, stepping into my space. He cups my frozen cheek with his warm hand, rubbing his thumb in a loving caress that has my skin igniting. “Oh, but you see, there’s another option, sweet little flower. Together, we would be unstoppable. I can offer you real power. Our armies united. Our magic combined. We could destroy the Six, wipe the slate clean, and rule what remains.”

He leans in close, his breath grazing my ear as he whispers seductively, “The universe would bow to us.” Then, softly, he presses a kiss to my cheek. The touch is so feather-light, I barely feel it against my frozen skin. He leans backwards just an inch to stare into my eyes.

I soften my expression, smiling up at him as I turn his words over in my mind. Power. Victory. The end of the Six. It’s everything I want. To end them once and for all. To burn them out of existence so thoroughly that no one will ever whisper their names again. Just like they tried to do to Dasmyrin. To me. I want to avenge Korithax. Talia. Marta. Theodus. Every life they’ve taken. Every piece of me they’ve torn away.

I could do that. With a huge army at my back. A cold ruler beside me who knows how to wage war without hesitation. No more fear. No more scrambling to survive. Just victory. For a terrifying moment, it sounds… possible.

He smiles down at me, his thumb still tracing slow, possessive strokes along my cheek as if I already belong to him. “We could rule it all, my queen.”

The words sink into the hollow places inside me. The places grief carved out that refuse to be refilled. Rule it all. End it all. No more running. No more loss.

“That’s all I want,” I breathe, my voice trembling as tears gather in my eyes. “To end it. To end the Six.”

A tear slips free, tracking down my cold skin. Kaelith catches it with his thumb, almost reverent, as though my grief is something precious rather than something he helped create. He brings his hand to his mouth and tastes the salt, making his eyes darken.