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The large male loomed menacingly. Aside from his size and the color of his dark green irises, I had no idea what he looked like. He was dressed in the Queen’s royal guard attire of black leather pants and boots, blood red tunic, and a thick, dark brown vest stamped with the Fae Queen’s standard—a thorned red rose twined around the blade of a sword.
Unlike the other guards, he also constantly wore gloves and an executioner’s black leather helmet. The head covering revealed only the eyes. Three small holes marked where his mouth should be. Surely it was hard to breathe inside such a thing.
“Take her back to her cell,” Sersha ordered, a slight shake in her voice. “I want her stripped and flogged. Use the rattan cane first. If she doesn’t cry after 40 lashes, switch to the cat o’nine.”
“Cry, my lady?”
“Yes, cry. Sob. Scream. Something!”
Dolan’s head turned to me, leaning his head thoughtfully. “How many lashes after I switch to the cat o’nine, my lady?”
I smirked. Dolan was smarter than he let on. Unlike his employer, he knew exactly how this would play out.
“As many as it takes.”
Dolan bowed then moved towards me, eyeing my throat. As his meaty hands cut off my oxygen, I held Sersha’s glare.
“I’ll break you, Raveena. One way or another, I’ll break you,” she promised, her voice pitched with the notes of her rage.
You first, I mouthed, just as my body lost its fight.
Chapter 2
Casimir
Six months later ...
“You look like shit, Cas.”
I frowned at Draven’s First Advisor, one of my oldest friends who had long ago become like a sister to me. Only family could get away with saying such things to my face.
“Thank you, Talia. As always, you are most eloquent.”
“She’s right,” Draven seconded. “You’re not sleeping.”
I reinforced my mental shields against my cousin, the Shadow Lord, ruler of everything within the borders of the Shadowlands. His mindreading capabilities were problematic. Usually, I was good at safeguarding my thoughts. Burnout was making me sloppy.
“Draven, it’s not polite to dip into others’ heads whenever you feel like it,” his mate chastised. I could always count on Lyric to call him out on his bullshit.
“What?” he asked innocently as his palms lifted into the air. “I’m concerned. I get protective when I’m concerned.”
“No. Really? I had no idea,” she replied acerbically, rubbing her growing bump. Overprotective was putting it mildly.
Lyric was only six months along, about halfway through a normal demon pregnancy. She wasn’t fully demon, so we weren’t exactly sure if it would shorten or lengthen the gestation period. Her asshole of a father, Gabrian, had said her mother’s pregnancies lasted about eleven, so that was what we were going with.
Gabrian was a Fortis demon, a branch of Other known for their physical strength. Like Draven, he was also a Gatekeeper. He and Draven had to work together because they guarded opposite ends of the Primus Crossing. We had developed a grudging respect for the bastard after our most recent battle when he finally demonstrated he wasn’t a complete waste of flesh as a sire.
Gabrian lived in Earth Realm and prevented humans from entering the gateway while Draven was charged with guarding this side, making sure no unauthorized species of Other attempted to cross. There were a number of crossings throughout the Otherland, but only one in the Shadowlands. Most magical beings were too dangerous to be turned loose in the human world and Gatekeepers had been around since the dawn of mankind.
Lyric’s other half—her better half, if anyone asked me—came from her late mother, who was Adrestian. Like her deceased mother, Lyric sometimes sprouted wings of pure energy. Her sister, Kree, could do the same.
Kree, my inner voice bemoaned. I needed to put that female out of my head. She’d made it quite clear she wasn’t interested in me and I’d respected the space she’d requested. Despite my acceptance of her disinterest, life had started weighing on me ever since, though not because of her. The coincidental timing of my problems was not ideal and I’d not been handling things as well as I’d thought.
Hence, the current intervention.
I’d been called to the Council Room under false pretenses, thinking we’d be going over the new rotation of security at Embour, the Shadowlands’ stronghold where the Shadow Lord made his home. Since I was in charge of such things I’d made a schedule and came prepared to discuss the changes.
This room was where we always convened to discuss Shadow demon business, or anything else of importance affecting the Shadowlands. Problems were presented and dealt with here. I’d spent many an hour in this room, in this same chair, at this same large wooden table, with the same Council members, hammering out solutions.
