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And two sickening thuds—the first, as Petra’s head fell from her neck, blond hair stained crimson, rolling to a stop a few feet away. The second, when her still-twitching body collapsed at Elyria’s feet.

Screams echoed in Elyria’s ears.

She didn’t understand why. Petra was dead. Gone in an instant, before she’d even had time to live.

So why was there still screaming?

It wasn’t until Elyria felt ice-cold fingers over her mouth, muffling the sound, that she realized she was the one who had been doing it.

Malakar’s body was like a block of stone at Elyria’s back—until it wasn’t. Her shock still had her rooted to the spot, so it took her a moment to realize he had released her. To realize he had taken several steps toward Petra’s body and was crouched low, two fingers dipped in her blood.

And now it did not feel like time had slowed. No, it felt like it sped up, everything happening so very, very fast.

In one of Malakar’s hands, a wicked-looking red crystal dagger formed. In the other, bands of scarlet slithered from his fingertips, catching Elyria’s wrists, crawling up her arms, pinning them to her sides. They slid along her breeches, wrapping around each limb, cinching tight before pulling her legs apart, forcing her stance wide.

The world tilted, and Elyria suddenly found herself staring at the floor, at the thick, plush carpet . . . and the wet crimson stain inching ever closer.

It was like she was suspended in midair, her body rigid, Malakar’s sanguinagi magic folding her in half, bending her over an invisible table. She tensed when she felt him move behind her, felt something cold and sharp trailing over the thin fabric of her blouse.

Malakar released a low hum. “I know you will not believe me, but this is the very last thing I wanted to have to do, regina.”

Elyria barely recognized her own voice when she said, “You’re right. I don’t believe you.” The words were monotone, leaden. A reporting of fact. If his actions leading up to this point weren’t proof enough, the dark hunger she could hear weaving through every syllable certainly was.

“Perhaps if you had not been so quick to try to steal your freedom . . .” He sighed. “It is so very uncivilized, this fae business of claiming. Boorish. Brutish. A savage practice, really. But if this is the only way to get my power back, it is what must be done.”

“Fuck. You,” she snarled, thrashing against the blood magic’s hold. At least it was his power holding her this time, she thought. Unlike when he turned her shadows against her, used them to slice off her own wings. It made what was about to happen the slightest bit less horrifying.

“It might even turn out to be a good thing,” Malakar continued, supremely unbothered by Elyria’s grunts of furious effort, the flurry of curses spewing from her mouth. Clearly the time for feigned cooperation was over. “Your bond is new. Incomplete. This could give you everything you might have hoped to get from him. After all, Daephinia unlocked a whole new sort of power within herself when she claimed Juno. Perhaps this will grant us similar gifts. Would you not like that, regina? It was quite the spectacle then, you know, their life-bonding. A performance I was blessed enough to witness at the time.”

He exhaled, a wistful sort of sound. Running his hand over the side of Elyria’s neck, he ripped Cedric’s token from her and tossed it aside. His fingers danced over her mark as he continued. “Think of how much stronger you and I might be . . . after.”

And that was what did it.

That was what finally caused the churning in Elyria’s gut to spill over, vomit surging up her throat, spilling onto the carpet below her. Malakar let out a disgusted noise as her body convulsed and she retched, and retched, and retched.

And all the while, that spasming pang in her chest only seemed to grow, like someone was knocking on the backside of her ribs.

She spat when it was over, sweat dripping down the bridge of her nose. And as though she had expelled her last remaining ounce of fight when she expelled everything else, Elyria didn’t even flinch as the dark sorcerer sliced clean through the fabric of her blouse, exposing the bare skin of her back. She didn’t whimper when he ran a cold hand across each of her shoulder blades, then trailed his blade’s razor-sharp edge along the same path. She didn’t cry out when he pressed down, almost curiously, reopening her scars.

Warmth trickled down the sides of her body, slid over her ribs, dripped onto the carpet. And like her own blood was feeding the magic holding her, strengthening it, the sanguinagi ribbons wrapped around her tightened.

And still, Elyria didn’t make a sound.

Not aloud, at any rate.

But inside?

Her heart was a war hammer in her chest.

The aching pang behind her ribs was pounding so hard, she wondered if she was bruising internally.

And her mind was a wild chorus—those three unspoken words sung over and over and over, a haunting refrain. Why hadn’t she said them? She wished she had. It would be her greatest regret in the life she had been given, save for what was about to happen.

Every muscle in Elyria’s body tensed, an involuntary shudder thundering through her as she felt Malakar settle between her legs. He was really going to do this, then. Right here, in the middle of the entrance hall of this stars-forsaken bloody fucking fortress, with Petra’s still-cooling corpse only feet away. Where any number of his followers could waltz around the corner and see.

Maybe that was what he wanted. A spectacle, just like Daephinia had made of her own bonding. Elyria’s face twisted at the thought of what she and Cedric shared—what she had hoped they might’ve shared still—being turned into some sort of grotesque performance.

Malakar let out a low growl, pressing against her backside. She tried not to wince as his blade dragged down the length of her spine, then cut into the belt securing her breeches.