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And to be fair, I think that he believes what he’s saying is true. I’m getting nothing but care and genuine confidence from him down the Bond.

The problem is, he’s wrong.

My Curse going off out of nowhere tonight proves that I can’t be trusted to be in charge of shit. My instincts don’t work right. There’s something inside of me that makes me detonate like I did tonight over the most stupid shit. It’s straight up deadly.

It’s why I normally sit back and let Dax and Caelan make all the decisions. No matter what, I’ll always be compromised so long as I can’t control this part of me and so long as our enemies can potentially use me as a weapon against my brothers.

Fuck, I could kill them accidentally one day. I could have killed Gav tonight.

Instead of arguing with him, I incline my head in thanks but don’t dare look up from my glass, afraid he’ll see just how fucking much I don’t trust myself.

“I appreciate it, but I need to tell you this next part. It wasn’t the Severed that brought my Curse out. I smelled something when I got into the warehouse, and the next thing I know…” I trail off, shaking my head ruefully. “Regardless, the Severed didn’t set it off. It was that fucking scent. The scent of magic.”

Dax stares at me blankly. “Okay, so? That’s good. It confirms that the interference was definitely due to wards.”

I snarl in irritation. This asshole is really going to make me fucking explain this to him.

The one time I need him to use his damn brain for good instead of evil.

“No, Daxen. You’re not—fuck.” I toss back the rest of my drink and slam the tumbler down, motioning to Gav for another. I’m gonna need to get so fucking drunk to relive this shit again.

Gods, Dax could be clueless sometimes.

He couldn’t have just intuited what I needed him to know? Read my mind? Read the Bond? Dreamwalk? I mean, for fucks sake.

“My parents gave me this Curse during a Blood Rite that took years to orchestrate. Not months, years. There’s… preparation. Rules. Forbidden shit scrawled on bone with blood. You know, your standard cult bullshit.” I scrub my hands down my face and nod my thanks when Gav passes back my glass three quarters the way full.

“It was full of shit only the members of my House know, and those in charge of the Rite are sworn to silence. There are some creepy stories that my ancestors cut out the tongues of the conclave members so they couldn’t pass on the knowledge to other Houses. It’s why no other House outside of ours has Marrowblades.”

Dax scowls. “That, and their families aren’t fucking psychopaths who force kids into walking blade bombs.”

I bark out a humorless laugh. “Yeah. That too.”

The warmth of the whiskey works through my veins, wrapping around me like a soft blanket and numbing me enough to lay out my fucked up childhood trauma.

I wonder if Gav has a couch I can lie on and one of those swinging metronome things just to really set the mood.

“When I was nine, they took me to the ritual site. I was terrified.”

I move my hands to my thighs and fist them under the table so the guys won’t see them shaking. Talking about shit makes me feel weak enough as it is.

“We went down a dark stairwell that was so cold there was frost on the walls. I was with my mother. She held my hand the entire time, and I didn’t question anything.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, realizing yet again how incredibly fucked up this sounds and how incredibly naive I’d been. Looking back, I can’t believe I never saw any signs of what was coming.

“They brought me to a large, circular room. The stench of dead vegetation and dirt was everywhere. Someone—I think it was my Father, but they had a hood covering their face—strapped me down on a stone altar⁠—”

Silas lets out a low whistle. “Fates, Vae. That’s a total blackout on the Cult Ritual bingo card. You hit every fucking square except the goat sacrifice.”

“Get real,” I reply flatly. “If someone had handed me a fucking goat back then, I’d have assumed we were making cheese. It was the 16th century, I was nine, and like most kids, I had the critical thinking skills of a possum.”

Silas leans forward, interest sparking in his eyes. “Alright, so how’d you go from Oh look, a goat! to Climb up on the Creepy Sacrificial Altar and Tell Santa What you Want for Christmas?”

Part of me wants to punch Silas in the mouth, but another part of me is overwhelmed with gratitude for his chaotic bullshit. My emotions are all over the place tonight.

Totally. Well. Adjusted.

I shoot him a shaky smile and finish the story. “I don’t remember much of it. It was long. I’m pretty sure I fell asleep a few times. And it was freezing cold. So cold that the blood they used to paint runes on my chest felt hot.”