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However, the sharp blade remains intact and in place.
Blood seeps from the wound, but it’s not the fresh sanguine drops one would expect. No. This is darker, thicker too, almost coagulated in its consistency. The descent is slow, and I watch as a drop at a time becomes puddles beneath his feet.
The robe he’s wearing does little to hide how emaciated he’s become in just a few days.
Pallid, dirty, and greasy. But awareness is clear in his stare. “You know.”
Not a question, but I nod yet the same. Whatever is killing him is causing this. “I do.”
“For how long? How?”
Ignoring him, I walk deeper into the room. In the corner, there’s a stack of stale bread and a large jug of water. The guards left a tray with other weapons on the opposite side; all are clean and unused—all but the blade of a golden dagger that catches my eye.
Taking the few steps between myself and the knife, I bend and pick it up. It’s thick and heavy, the sharp edge glinting in the low lighting coming off the singular torch.
My fingers wrap around the hilt. “Bring me his meal.”
“Answer me, Alpha. How do you know?”
“Now,” I say, ignoring his emphasis on my title. From the corner of my eye, I catch the two guards exchanging a look. Neither questions me, though. Grady has always been loyal, and his son, a trainee, is showing great character. “It should be right outside the door by now.”
“Yes, Alpha.” The younger of the two rushes out, bringing with him a domed-lid plate and a still-hot cuppa. “Where do you want me to put this, King Xadiel?”
At once, the scent of a full English breakfast fills the stone room with iron bars. I’ve spared no expense for my guests, plural, and one of them will enjoy a bountiful last meal.
Every act of madness has a purpose.
The smallest temptations can move mountains.
“Hold them for a moment.” I hide back a smirk while the warlock’s fear intensifies. So does an unmistakable rumble from his abdomen. Because there are many ways to break a person: witches, fae, vampires, and werewolves all share one likeness to humans we can’t control. We feel…
Hunger.
Desperation.
Pain.
“Better yet, let’s all take a walk. Some fresh air would do him good.”
9
XADIEL
“I’m not eating that.”
“What is that...?” I raise a brow. “Afraid I’d poison you?”
“How about you answer some questions, your highness? Tell me how you know,” he sneers, a lot more alert now than when I arrived, but it’s false valor. The piss pooling, mixing with his bloodstains on the concrete floor, is a good tell. So is the way he flinches when I toss the knife, catching it with my now-clawed hand.
My wolf has risen to the surface. The animal is in my eyes and the sudden sprout of fur covering my arms and chest. It’s bothersome, the bulging of my muscles ripping the back of my long-sleeved shirt, and I toss it.
I don’t care where it lands. Instead, I take in how uncomfortable this man is.
“You know the answer to that already. Don’t you.” Not a question, and the way he shifts his eyes away confirms it. Turning, I look at Grady. “Bring him to the lowest floor. We’re already late for a meeting.”
Exiting the room, I take a walk down the opposite end of the floor and find the two cells empty, their occupants having been moved, and I step inside the first. Just like the warlock’s, this one has a stack of old bread, a jug of water, and chains on the wall. The difference here is the silver used to keep the wolf subdued; it doesn’t kill the beast but will slow him down.
Unless injected. In the bloodstream, it’s toxic.
