Page 29 of The Dark Lord’s Guide to Honeymooning (and Other Acts of Tyranny)

I kicked the remains, my composure fractured beyond recognition. “Do you know what it’s like to build your entire identity around a single purpose, only to have it rendered meaningless? What it’s like to claw your way up from nothing, to earn every ounce of power with blood and pain?” The room darkened until the angry glow of my runes was the only source of light. “I’m going to peel Auremar’s skin from his body. And then I’m going to make him watch as I use it to bind the grimoire that details exactly how I’ll unmake his precious kingdom.”

I whirled toward the door, my magic crackling around me. Every fiber of my being demanded violence—blood and screams to drown out the howling failure in my mind.

“Kaz.” Arabella’s voice sliced through my rage.

I froze, one hand already on the door, fingers digging into the wood. My gaze snapped to her, the rage momentarily suspended as I registered the shimmering barrier between us—a translucent shield she’d cast to protect herself from the destruction I’d unleashed.

Shame cut through my fury. But it was the look on her face that truly arrested me. It wasn’t fear. It was a deep, quiet hurt that I didn’t have the first clue how to decipher. I had just laid my soul bare, my ambition, my entire reason for being, and in response, she looked wounded.

I reeled in my shadows, feeling like I was failing a test I hadn’t been given. “I would never—” I began, the words catching in my throat.

“I know.” She let out a small breath. The shield dissolved into sparkling motes of light. “But the chamber is rather small for your magnificent wrath, and I wasn’t keen on picking splinters out of my skin all evening.”

Her attempt at humor didn’t quite mask the hurt in her eyes.

“Besides,” she added, gesturing with her chin, “I was protecting the Heirloom.”

My gaze followed the gesture, and with a jolt of alarm, I remembered with dawning horror that the godsdamned thing was still on her head.

The Heirloom was now a direct conduit to that magical plague. Using it wasn’t just dangerous; it was an invitation for that corruption to flow directly into the bearer. Into us. Into my wife.

Rage, hot and sharp, mingled with a cold, terrifying dread. “Take it off,” I said, my voice dangerously quiet. “Arabella. Take it off now.”

She tried to. Her hands flew to her head, scrabbling at the golden band. A look of panic flashed across her face.

“I can’t,” she choked out, her fingers sliding uselessly off the smooth metal. “Kaz, it’s… it’s stuck.”

I grabbed it to help. The Heirloom of Dominion flared with a blinding golden light. The metal burned my fingertips, searing hot as if fresh from a forge. I tried to wrench it free, but it clung to her as though fused to her skin.

“It’s burning!” Arabella cried out. “Kaz, get it off me!”

I gripped the circlet more firmly, ignoring the scorching pain that lanced through my palms. The runes carved into my bones flared in response, muting the waves of agony up my arms.

“Hold still,” I commanded, though my voice betrayed more fear than authority.

Arabella cried out as I pulled harder. “Hurry,” she gasped between ragged breaths. “It feels like it’s melting into me.”

The golden light intensified, becoming so bright I could barely look at her. The metal began to liquefy beneath my grip. Not loosening. Transforming. Sinking into her flesh like molten gold. She screamed. Then, with an audible shimmer, the circlet vanished. Her screams turned to whimpers, then silence as her eyes rolled back.

“Arabella!” Terror clawed through my chest as she slumped forward into my arms. I cradled her limp form against me, my heart hammering with a panic I hadn’t felt since I was a child facing my mother’s knife.

The Heirloom had sunk into her flesh as if it were nothing more than a mirage, leaving only the faint, gilded outline of a crown tattooed across her forehead.

10 Merge with a Magical Artifact

(and Other Unexpected Relationship Milestones)

Arabella

Consciousness returned slowly. The first thing I noticed was warmth—not the searing burn from before, but something pleasant like sunshine on bare skin. The second was Kazimir’s arms around me, his voice a low, urgent murmur above my head.

“—bella. Arabella, please. Open your eyes.”

I blinked them open to find his face inches from mine, storm gray eyes wild with barely controlled panic.

Relief crashed over his features so violently that for a moment I thought he might cry. Instead, he crushed me against his chest, one hand cradling the back of my head.

“Don’t,” he said roughly, “ever do that again.”