Page 16 of Blackheart

“Though I concede that Blackhearts may feel affection, lust, or even the madness of obsession, I find it unlikely that such creatures are capable of love. Their hearts are black indeed.”

—Anonymous correspondence to Lyonscliff

Soakedto the bone by rain and the sense of complete failure, I sat silently against the alley wall.

“Quite messy of you, really,” Lord Ansel lectured, eying my clenched fist. It was a pathetic attempt to stop the flow.

I pressed harder. My home had been burned, the Sapphires attacked us, and Luna left me. Sheleftme. Attempting to use my Nature was the stupidest thing I could have done, and most infuriating of all, the obsidian wall was still there, taunting me.

Lord Ansel loomed above me, not a single drop of blood or water on him. The only dry person in all of the Waywards, letting the storm pour on everyone but himself.

If only the rain could have washed my Nature away with it.

“You need to go home until you get that under control, Blackheart.”

“I don’t have a home.” I clenched my hands tighter, desperate to contain the poison I would never be free from.

He glanced back at the building. Bodies were being dragged out of the destruction, but I couldn’t bring myself to look at their faces. Maybe Fate favored Arielle, because she was no longer lying in the streets. How she had lived while so many others died, I didn’t know.

“Hm.”

“What?” I snapped.

“Get up.”

I did, letting the poison drip from my palm as I stood before him, body aching and refusing to meet his eye. I could run, but where? Fighting would be comical. He’d just brought the sky’s wrath upon a small army of Sapphires.

“We have enough bodies to add to the burn pile.”

I looked up, brow scrunched. “What?”

He extended a hand. “Do you trust me, Blackheart?”

“Do you want an honest answer?” I would trust Charles the Imp before I trusted a Witchlord.

“No.” He gripped my hand, and the world around me became blue with mist and fog. It was as if we were floating in a cloud, yet moving too fast.

I tried to scream, but he was behind me, placing our joined hands over my mouth.

Swatting him away, I lost my balance. Somehow, I was tripping, my hands smacking onto a hardwood floor.

Large windows poured soft light into the well-kept living room. Bookshelves and blue velvet couches filled the open space. Artwork adorned the walls, and a mug was left discarded on the table.

The floor sizzled as poison pressed into it from my palm. I recoiled, grabbing my own wrist.

“You know, it's rude to burn a hole in someone's floor,” Lord Ansel said.

Hisfloor? I scrambled to my feet, backing away. Outside the window, the house across the street was black with a golden-tipped domed roof.

This was Keeper’s Street, an exclusive area for the Witchlords’ homes.

He tossed his cloak onto the couch and stood in his tunic, black hair shining under a chandelier.

“I’m not supposed to be here.”

“Says who?”

“The Witchlor—” I stopped as he raised a brow, challenging me.Hewas a Witchlord. Within these walls, what he said was law, and he answered only to the king.