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The copper began to dent under my fingertips as the image of the auburn-haired bitch formed in my mind, no matter how much I wanted to forget what she looked like because that was her specialty.

Queen Ileana.

The Blood Queen.

She was living proof that beauty was nothing more than an outer façade because she was the worst of them all. Her touch was scraping, sharp nails that carved into my flesh and then turned to almost loving strokes, always seductive, always so very…effective.

That was what she enjoyed more than taking my blood: watching my body give in to her demands while I cursed her and struggled against the chains that bound me, throwing every insult I could think of at her. Even after she grew tired of being the one to inflict such damage, and others just like Ileana took her place, I still heard her laughter, soft and tinkling like the windchimes that once hung in the gardens of Evaemon—the ones I’d torn down in a blind rage upon returning home, frightening my mother and leaving my father silent for days.

Five decades of having pieces of who I was broken off, bit by bit. Five decades of surviving on the promise of revenge, of retribution, kept on the verge of bloodlust, always hungry, until the day my brother came for me. I barely recognized him. I barely recognized Shea.

And I no longer knew myself.

Lowering my gaze to my hands, I saw them. I saw what I’d done with them. The first act I’d committed after my wrists were no longer bound. A shudder went through me. I didn’t want to think about what Shea had done—the bargain she’d made with the Ascended.

I didn’t want to think about what I’d done to her.

Lifting my hands, I pressed my fingers against my temples instead of what I had done in the past too many times to count when I was alone and the memories wouldn’t go away. When the thoughts wouldn’t stop coming.

Pleasure wasn’t the only temporary escape.

There was also pain.

And if my skin scarred as easily as a mortal’s, my arms would be a coarse map that led the way to all the times I’d sought to feel something—anything—but what those memories dredged up.

Neither the pleasure nor the pain had worked. I knew that, even though the years after my rescue were a blur of doing everything I could to forget by any means necessary.

My fingers slipped from the sides of my head. I stared at them once more, thinking of the unending stretch of waking nightmares. The long nights of drinking. The even longer days of smoking the unripe poppy seeds until I was either drunk or high enough to forget who I was. And the countless nameless and faceless bodies I’d been with in those dark years afterward. Atlantian. Mortal. Women. Men. Those I fucked just to prove to myself that I decided who touched me. Who I touched. That I had control. That I could still find pleasure in the act. But hell, I’d been a mess. It didn’t matter how many times I proved it, how many times I looked at my hands as I did now, a near century later, and didn’t see chains cutting into my flesh.

I’d still be in that headspace if not for Kieran and others. If they hadn’t done everything they could to remind me who I was and who—what—I wasn’t. Kieran had done a whole lot of the heavy lifting. Damn if he still didn’t. But they’d woken me up. They’d pulled me out of the darkness and into a new life that held one purpose only.

To free my brother.

And that was who I’d become.

All I’d become.

Not exactly who I was before. I would never be him again, but this was the closest I would ever get.

Now, the nightmares only really found me in sleep, and there had been times since then when sex was about the pleasure of sharing myself with another and not about control or proving a godsdamn thing to anyone—not even myself. A few moments where it had been about something deeper. But the other times? There were still many where I couldn’t clearly recall anything about their features. Too many.

There was no feeling of pride accompanying that realization. No smug satisfaction or arrogance. Because, truth be told, I still hadn’t forgotten that darkness. It lingered. Haunted. Just as cold as all those releases.

Just as empty.

PRESENT III

I sat with my eyes closed, back against the headboard, holding Poppy to my chest. The top of her head was tucked against my shoulder, and her hips and legs were nestled between mine. Kieran had returned some time ago with a pale blue slip that Hisa had found for Poppy. It had taken so long because she had to search for something that wasn’t white. Hisa likely hadn’t understood why that mattered, but Kieran hadn’t wanted Poppy to wake in the color of the Maiden.