Page 49 of Bitten & Burned

Twenty-Three

FOUL

Kravenspire, Sol, Verdune

Either he’s a fool—or he knew exactly what he was doing.

The words echoed in my skull like the chime of a cracked bell—fractured, off-pitch, and too loud to ignore. They rattled around inside me, bouncing off the walls of every justification I’d built to protect Silas’s image.

I sat in the study, stiff and quiet, trying to hold myself together while the truth unraveled everything I thought I knew.

Had I really been so arrogant? So certain I knew better?

I had spoken so confidently, argued with Vael as though he couldn’t possibly be right. I had clung to the belief that Silas had been foolish, not cruel. Na?ve, not manipulative. That if there were consequences, they were accidental. Unintended.

But that sigil burned inside me still. A beacon to my own naivete.

I stared at the floor, unable to meet my father’s eyes where he sat by the fire, turning the amulet over and over in his hands. He hadn’t said anything. He didn’t need to. I knew it all already.

Anton stood at my back, silent and steady, but I felt exposed. Like everyone could see it now. See how wrong I’d been.

I pressed my fingers against the wound at my thigh, as if I could will it shut. As if I could undo it. But it pulsed beneath my skin, rhythmic and damning. It wasn’t just pain. It was proof. Of my misjudgment. My mistake.

I had let him get close. I had worn his gift. I had defended him to the man I should have trusted all along.

“I don’t like this,” Quil muttered from the window, his tone tight.

And, instead of scared, I was grateful for the distraction. For the shift in attention. Because I didn’t want them to look at me right now. I didn’t want them to see that the mask had cracked.

“Don’t like what?” I asked softly, already knowing I wouldn’t like the answer.

Quil didn’t take his eyes from the window. “I hear something… footsteps. At least a dozen. Maybe more. Light tread. Cautious. Not wolves. Not animals.”

A chill ran slowly down my spine.

“Could be townspeople,” Vael murmured, though I could hear the doubt already tightening his voice.

Quil shook his head. “Wrong part of the forest for it. No one local would come down from the mountains this time of day. These are coming from the ridgeline.”

From the top of the mountain.

I frowned. “That’s—”

“Strange,” Cassian finished for me, voice low, too calm. “The wards are shimmering. Something’s pressing against them.”

He turned to Vael without hesitation. “Take Rowena and Ambrose. Get to the basement. I’ll be there as soon as—”

It hit me before he could finish. White hot and searing, the tremor tore through skin and muscle and straight into the bone of my thigh. I gasped, the pain so sudden and sharp I nearly doubled over.

“Inera—” I hissed, reaching instinctively for the source, my fingers scrabbling through my skirts until they found the wound. The sigil.

It was swollen. Throbbing. Weeping.

And wet. My hand came away slick with blood.

“I’m bleeding,” I whispered, staring at my fingers. Fig meowed and batted at my skirt. I reached for him, scooped him into my arms.

A beat of silence.

And then—howling. High-pitched. Inhuman. It pierced the air from somewhere just beyond the manor walls.

Quil moved before the echo had even faded, his chair scraping loudly as he stood. “Someone’s coming,” he said, already crossing the room towards me.

And then—boom.

The world shuddered. Something detonated against the east-facing ward, and the whole house trembled beneath it.

Books spilled from shelves, lamps crashed to the floor, and the windows rattled in their panes.

I hit the floor hard, my shoulder slamming into the edge of the armchair, breath knocked from my lungs.

Fig went scrambling from my arms to dive under the chair.

My ears rang. My pulse thundered. The room dissolved into chaos.

“Rowena!” Vael’s voice cut through the fog, distant, distorted.

I tried to look up. Tried to find him. Tried to find my father.

I stumbled to my feet, half-crawling, half-dragging my leg. The burning in my thigh had intensified into a sharp, pulsing agony—like the sigil itself had erupted and was now clawing its way out from the inside.

That’s when I smelled it.

A stench so potent it turned my stomach and made my vision blur.

Sweat. Filth. Bloodroot rot. The raw, sour stench of unwashed bodies and dried blood.

Something fungal, and then, sickly sweet beneath it all—decay, rot, disease.

It clung to the air, thick and suffocating.

And underneath it, something deeper. Wrong.

Familiar in the worst way.

The boat.

The memory cracked open inside me like a bone snapping clean through. The weight of a body over mine. A dirty hand in my mouth. The smell of their skin pressed against my throat.

They were here. Again.

The Ashbornes.

Panic took me by the spine and ripped. Reason vanished. Thought vanished. All I had left was movement. Flight.

I turned, staggering towards the door, towards the hallway, towards anywhere they weren’t. My skirts tangled around my boots. The floor was slick with blood or wine, possibly both. I slipped, caught myself, stumbled again.

Glass shattered to my left.

Someone or something screamed behind me.

I kept going. My thigh burned, the sigil flaring hotter than it ever had, electric and blinding. My leg gave out beneath me, crumpling like wet paper. I hit the ground hard, pain flaring in my hands and knees as I crawled, dragging myself across the floor.

The south door. I had to make it to the south door. Through the library. Down the cellar stairs. If I could just get to the basement—just get somewhere and hide. Hide until the others came for me… I’d be okay. If I could just…

My fingers clawed at the floorboards. Nails splintered. My palm skidded across a broken shard of glass. I felt the skin tear, but I didn’t stop. I grabbed the door frame, gripped with all my might.

That’s when I saw it happen. Fig, once safe under the armchair, launched his tiny body at one of the intruders, one who was currently fighting Quil. I could just make it out. I screamed.

The gangling monster then grabbed my cat. My Fig. My baby. He threw him across the room. Hard. Fig hit a bookcase. Fell to the ground. Still.

The scream built in my chest a split second before the hands found me.

They clamped around my ankles—filthy, strong, calloused hands—and yanked.

I couldn’t focus on that. On Fig. I had to… do something. Fight.

“NO!” I shrieked, grabbing for anything to hold onto.

The doorframe scraped my palms. I kicked out blindly and made contact—there was a crunch and a curse—but it didn’t matter.

Another pair of hands grabbed my other leg.

They dragged me, both of them, jerking me from the room and into the hall like I was a sack of grain.

The stench hit me full force out here. Worse than inside. Heavier. Purer.

Hands groped at me, pulling, grabbing, smearing dirt and blood up my legs.

Fingers tangled in my hair and ripped me upright by the roots. I screamed again, stars bursting behind my eyes as they sought out the being responsible for my injuries.

Then, I saw him.

Grinning. A mouth full of rotted teeth. Skin flaking and crusted with grime. Eyes yellowed and bloodshot. Wildly looking around. Moving too fast. He was close enough that I could see the blood dried beneath his nostrils, the sores blooming across his cheek.

He looked at his companion and nodded. Like I was a prize hog at auction.

Hell of a time for my ears to pop. The world came rushing back in just in time to hear him croon, “Bloodbound, bloody little bride. She’s ours. You’re ours now.”

The other one laughed. It was high and twitchy. His hands slid under my skirts, pushing them up. Ripping my stockings until my legs were bare.

His touch was greedy. Probing. Getting bolder the higher he reached.

I writhed, shrieking, trying to claw the hand from my hair. My nails caught on skin—he yelped—but it earned me a backhand across the face so hard it made the world tilt.

White noise. Pain. My cheek throbbed, jaw slack. I tasted blood—mine.

“Gettin’ warm now,” the second one giggled. His fingers wrapped around my thigh, thumb pressing into the sigil like he knew.

Tears streamed down my face. I couldn’t move. My limbs wouldn’t listen.

“Rellin,” the second one muttered, glancing behind them. “We should get out first. If we stay to play with her now, the vamps are gonna catch us.”

“Shut up,” Rellin snapped, not taking his eyes off me. “They ain’t comin’. They’re busy with the others. House full’a bloodsuckers and not one’a them knows she’s gone yet.”

He leaned closer, breath rancid. “They can’t hear her scream in here. The ruckus they’re makin’ in there is too loud. By the time they realize, we’ll be long gone, on our way back to the Doc.”

His hand slid to my inner thigh. My whole body bucked in protest.

“We can do whatever we want to her pretty little hide.”

I could feel the other one smile. I felt it—greasy and foul—pressed to my cheek like an oil stain, the heat of his breath sticky against my skin.

“Please… no,” I whimpered. It was all I could manage. A breath. A prayer.

“‘Please no’,” Rellin echoed, his voice curling into a high, mocking falsetto. Then he dropped it low and mean, spitting the words like bile. “Shut up, bloodwhore.”

His grip on my thigh tightened. His other hand tangled deeper in my hair. “I know what you are. You let those bloodsuckers rut around on you like a bitch in heat. Bet you moan for ‘em, don’t you? Bet you open your legs and beg.”

The other one chuckled, pressing his crotch into my side. I gagged.

“You let ‘em do whatever they want,” Rellin continued, voice growing more fevered with every word. “You should be pleased as punch to have a real man want you.”

His hand moved again. Fingers worming under my skirt, yanking it higher.

“Stop—please—” I choked, throat raw, trying to twist away.

Rellin leaned down, his cracked lips brushing my ear. “Nah. No more beggin’. You had your turn. Now it’s ours.”

And that’s when I heard it.

A voice—not mine—deep and low and furious. A growl more than words. Then: a snap. A crack. A wet, choking gurgle.

And Rellin gasped. His grip loosened. Then his body was gone.

Ripped away so fast it took my breath with it.

A scream—cut short.

And when I blinked up through tear-blurred eyes, I saw him.

Anton.

Not the Anton who flirted and baked pastries. Not the one who fed me bites of chocolate like kisses.

This Anton was soaked in blood. His shirt hung in ribbons. His mouth was curled back, fangs fully bared, eyes black and glowing. A predator. A monster. My savior.

And gods help anyone who gets in his way.