The War of Two Queens (Blood and Ash 4)

The Duke swallowed as his smirk faded.

“But what was far more painful was how the ones in pieces died.” I paused, watching the corners of his mouth tighten. “Answer my question, and your death will be quick. Don’t? I will make sure you feel as if it lasts a lifetime. That’s up to you.”

He stared, and I practically saw the wheels turning in his mind, searching for a way out of this.

“It’s a terrible thing, isn’t it?” I stepped closer to him, and the essence pulsed in my chest. “To know that death is finally coming for you. To see it right before you. To be in the same chamber with it, for seconds, minutes, longer, and know that you can do nothing to prevent it.” My voice lowered, became softer and colder…and smoky. “Not a single thing. It’s horrifying, the inevitability of it. The knowledge that if you still have a soul, it is surely bound for only one place. Deep down, you must be so afraid.”

A small, visible shudder coursed through him.

“Just like those mortals you led outside the Rise, tore into, fed off, and left to turn. Just like those in the cells and those on the gates.” I searched his pale features. “They must have been so terrified to learn that death had come for them at the hands of those they believed protected them.”

He swallowed once more. “There are no more Ascended. There never has been. No one wants to rule at the edge of the realm.” His chest rose with a deep breath. “I know who you are. I know what you are. It’s why you’re still standing, alive to this day. It’s not because you’re a god,” he said, his lip curling. “It’s because of the blood that courses through your veins.”

My spine stiffened. “If you say it’s because of who my mother is, I will not make your death quick.”

The Duke laughed, but the sound was as cold and harsh as that space inside me. “You think you’re a great liberator, don’t you? Come to free the mortals from the Blood Crown. Free your precious husband.”

Everything in me stilled.

“Kill the Queen—your mother—and take these lands in the name of Atlantia?” The spark of eather was in his eyes then. The corner of his lips curved up. “You will do no such thing. You will win no war. All you will accomplish is terror. All you will do is spill so much blood that the streets flood with it, and the kingdoms will drown in rivers of crimson. All you will liberate is death. All that you and those who follow will find here is death. And if your love is lucky enough, he will be dead before he sees what’s become of—”

Unsheathing my bloodstone dagger, I thrust it into his chest, piercing his heart and stopping the poisonous words before they could penetrate too deeply. And he felt it—the first splintering of his being, the first tearing of his skin and bone. And I, for one, was grateful for that.

His soulless eyes widened in surprise as fine lines appeared in the pale skin of his cheeks. The cracks deepened into a web of fractures that spread down his throat and under the collar of the tailored satin shirt he wore. I held his stare as the tiny ember of eather went out of his black eyes.

And, only then, for the first time in twenty-three days, did I feel nothing at all.

Chapter 3

Twenty-eight days.

Nearly a month had passed, and the constant ache throbbed so intensely it hurt. I clamped my jaw shut against the scream birthed from the cavern that had become my heart, one of frustration and ever-present helplessness and guilt. Because if I had controlled myself, if I hadn’t lashed out…

There were so many ifs. So many ways I could’ve handled things differently. But I hadn’t, and that was one of the reasons he wasn’t here.

The fluffy and buttery mound of eggs and strips of fried meat before me lost their appeal as the scream built in my throat, pressing against my sealed lips. A bone-deep sense of desperation rose and swiftly gave way to potent fury. The center of my chest hummed, the ancient power pulsing with barely leashed rage.

The fork I held trembled. Pressure seized my chest, closing off my throat as eather pulsed and swelled, pushing against my skin. If I screamed, if I gave in to all the pain and rage, the sound of desperation and anguish would become wrath and fury. The scream choking me, the power building inside me, tasted of death.

And a small part of me wanted to let it out.

Fingers several shades deeper than mine closed over my hand, stilling the tremor. The touch, something that had once been so forbidden, jolted me from the dark path, as did the faint charge of energy that passed between us. Slowly, my left hand was turned so the shimmery golden swirl of the marriage imprint was visible.