Page 128 of The Reaping Rose

“You’re accusing me of helping them?”

“Drop the act.” His voice is cold; his gaze hardens. “We’ve been watching you for days. Since you tried to lure away my lovely Esen. But just like I noticed her slip away at the parade, I noticed you. Watching. Considering how you were going to strike.”

He glances back at Esen. From this angle, I notice a mark on her neck that wasn’t there before. A bruise that’s healing now. Purple and black marks peek out of the collar of her dress.

Anger has me clenching my fists as I turn back to him.

“Where are they?” I demand.

“I already told you. Your friends have been dealt with.”

More men enter the room, flooding from all sides. A spit of my magic sparks at my fingertips, but it won’t be enough. Not as Esen’s void reaches out, intentional or not, and mutes it.

“Ah.” He gleams, his gaze falling to my cheek, where the heat searing my skin has my eyes widening because I feel them—my freckles glowing. “There’s what I was looking for.”

I take a step back, but not fast enough. The two men at my sides grab my wrists, shackling them in obsidian chains.

“Like I said, we’ve been watching you.” The overlord steps close, dragging a hand down the side of my face.

He’s close but blurry.

The obsidian has my stomach lurching. I can barely contain the bile rising in my throat.

“We didn’t expect you to come to us; I appreciate the initiative.” He taps my cheek.

My vision flickers. The obsidian is worse than the thick press back home. Here, where there’s already not enough magic to breathe fully, it wraps me with the strength of a dragon’s grip around my chest.

“Her Majesty will be so disappointed to lose you.” Overlord Farseth grins, and with the obsidian muddying my thoughts, it takes me a moment to realize he thinks the queen sent us here. “But you’ll make such a lovely addition to my collection.”

Chapter 43

Greer

Cyan’s inky-black eyes are cold as they skim over us. He stands before the tents, fingertips dancing with shadows. His dark hair hangs limp at the sides of his face, and he barely reminds me of his son, who I’ve spent the past few months with.

There is no warmth in his gaze like there is with Callum. No heart. No care. There is nothing but darkness in Cyan’s eyes.

Shadows pool, moving like water at his feet as he steps forward. He could probably wake the minds of the guards Atlas is currently manipulating, but he doesn’t bother. He’s powerful enough not to need their help.

“Are you not aware of the price on your head?” Cyan says, sweeping me with his gaze.

His shadows creep closer, and the air heats as Atlas sends a lick of flame to meet them.

“Where is Malachi?” I ignore Cyan’s question.

He tilts his head. “Your king does not wish to see you, although this little display might interest him.”

“He is not my king.”

That draws a vicious smile to his lips. On anyone else, I would read it as amusement, drawing color to his pale face. On him, it is a promise of death.

“He trusted you too much,” Cyan says, watching me. “I warned him you would be a problem like your parents, but he didn’t listen.”

“Maybe if he hadn’t murdered them, I wouldn’t have been a problem.” My chest tightens, and Atlas slides closer.

His arm brushes mine; the unnatural heat of his skin is a comfort. His fingers dance, and I sense him preparing for what Cyan might throw at us. Not that either of us will be able to take him down. There’s a reason Malachi chose Cyan as an adviser. He’s powerful and ruthless beyond anything I’ve fought before.

“There are things more important than blood.” Cyan’s tone is flat—cold.