Page 33 of Mate of a Monster

Slowly, his gaze slides to me. “How is your magic?”

“It’s going fucking wild, thanks for asking.” The admission doesn’t draw a reaction from him. He knows something. Then again, fucker always does. “What are you hiding?”

He evades the question with a frown. “Tell me you’re okay.”

I let out a low scoff, stepping closer until the wet sweetness curls deeper into my lungs only for the stench of rot to follow.

“What’s the matter, brother,” I murmur, feigning amusement because the alternative is fear. “Can’t find the answer for yourself?”

“Legend.” The crease between his brows deepens, his stare turning focused in the way it does only when he’s in my head, sorting through the mess that is me. Father had once told him it was his job to know what lived inside each of us. The ultimate form of protection, he’d called it. The perfect gift for the eldest son, and admittedly, a heavier weight for him to carry than the rest of us.

Except now, he looks frustrated as his blue eyes zero in on mine.

Something shifts at the base of my skull. It’s subtle at first, then sharper—the familiar pressure of Creed’s gift brushing against my mind. It’s not violent or uncomfortable, just there the way it has always been, pressing lightly at my temples.

“I understand why you’re blocking me out. I do, Legend. But I need to know.” His tone is low, almost guilty, which makes no sense, but it’s the desperation in his next word that has me frowning. “Please.”

Please.

Creed Deveraux doesn’t say please.

My smirk dies slowly as something cold slides under my ribs. “I’m not blocking you out,” I admit.

Creed’s eyes narrow, scanning my face as if he expects to find the lie sitting right behind my pupils. “Don’t do that.”

“I’m not doing anything,” I bite, and the irritation flares hot, because the idea of keeping Creed out of my head is so unnatural it’s almost insulting.

He has been there my whole life. He knows the shape of my mind the way he knows the layout of this castle. He knows where I hide the worst parts, where I bury the things I don’t want to admit, even to myself.

After everything, after he saved me from the biggest fucking mistake of my life, why would I push him out?

My magic sits under my skin, restless.

Every time I think I have a finger on what it is I’m feeling, every time I’m at the edge of an answer I don’t even know I’m looking for, it’s like my thoughts are pushed out.

My gaze flicks to the rot again.

“Brother…” I start, stepping closer to the black smear at the base of the roses, because something about it tugs at me. At first, it sounds like a warning, but the closer I get the clearer it becomes.

It sounds like a cry, one I can’t hear with my ears, which makes no fucking sense.

My hand lifts, fingers spreading as if I’m reaching for heat off a flame. When my skin gets close enough, that ache under my sternum gets worse, then burrows.

The rot stirs, a thin ripple running through the black as if it’s waking from my nearness, and then it hits me.

There’s no sound to be heard, but I swear to the fucking gods, it’s calling to me.

My knees give out, the grass damp under my palms as I drop, and my hand presses into the edge of the rot, thorns cutting into my flesh.

The second my skin makes contact, heat surges straight up my arm, through my shoulder, and into my chest, revealing an empty cavity I didn’t know was there. For one vicious second, it’s like something inside me recognizes this darkness.

My breath punches from my lungs, fingers flexing against the wet black, and the rot recoils.

It pulls back from my touch, the roses rising back to life.

Creed curses as he steadies me.

“What the fuck,” I rasp, staring down at my hand like it’s the problem. I press harder, spreading my palm, touching as much of the rot as I can reach. I need to understand what’s happening and my body is acting like it already does.