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It’s bad enough that I thought they’dallowedthis to happen.
But that one of them nearly killed our mate?
Murderous intent rolls through me when Kor finally turns around. “It was me.”
He was ready for my response. I flashed across the room, fangs bared, and went for his neck.
He caught me with his arm and my jaw locked around it until bone snapped underneath my bite.
He didn’t even flinch.
“You have every right to destroy me, brother. Trust me. I want to do the same to myself, but that won’t help Ishara.” He glances at her. Hedaresto look at her. “She woke briefly after it happened. She almost died, but an ancient spirit called her to the death plane and it’s preserving her body. It must want her power for itself—and it’s not a patriarch.”
Unlatching my jaw from his arm, I snarl as blood drizzles from my mouth. “Already trying to make excuses for losing control,brother?” I use the term loosely. As far as I’m concerned, my brothers died a long time ago.
After this? They can stay dead.
“I told you he’d need proof,” Zyran says. “Shall I show him?”
Kor glances at me and must see my resolve to rip his throat out, because he agrees. “Very well. Go ahead.”
Zyran gets up and approaches Ishara. I’m on him in an instant.
“Neither of you gets to touch her again.Ever,” I grate out. And I fucking mean it.
Zyran backs off, which is probably a wise move if he likes his head attached to his body.
“It’s on her chest just over her heart,” he explains. He nods to the unconscious witch when I don’t move. “See for yourself.”
I frown, but curiosity wins out over my anger and I approach Issy’s still form.
Her chest rises and falls in a slight pattern. One too frail for my liking, but the sheet is pulled up to her shoulder. I tug it down, only to find more bandages in place.
“Did you go for the heart?” I growl, fresh rage building inside of me.
“No, Issy’s magic stopped me the moment I went too far,” Kornelius insists. “We covered it up. I’d remove the bandage, but you seem like you might rip my arm off if I get near her.”
Damn straight.
Ignoring my brother, I gently peel away the layers of the bandage until angry, bruised flesh is exposed to the air. A growl rumbles in my throat.
Because I want to kill whoever harmed my mate.
I want to rip out his entrails and ring it around his neck, choking him until the last thing he sees is the heart I’ve ripped from his chest before death takes over.
Too bad the person on the other end of that would be Kornelius in this case.
And Zyran next, because he looks just as fucking guilty.
But once I see past the bruises, I notice a very circular mark, one that doesn’t line up with vampire bites or scratches.
No, there’s a pattern. One that forms a witch’s symbol.
“What is this?” I snap. I’m not experienced enough with witchcraft to know exactly what sort of symbol I’m looking at—but I know a curse when I see one.
“The ancient spirit,” Zyran supplies. He places his bottle down as he stands.
He wisely doesn’t approach, but he does lean over to look at the mark.
