Page 172 of Blackheart

He hardened under me at my response.

His face reddened, lust clouding his good sense. Leave it to a man to face death with desire. Though who was I to pass up such an opportunity? Would the historians write about this moment? The Witchlord and I on the roof?

I reached for his pants, gripping his waistband. “I mean, if we’re going to die anyway.”

His eyes roamed from his sword, to my hands, and finally—my body. “Youarea little whore.”

I lowered my gaze shyly, focusing between his legs. I tugged the zipper down, revealing the subpar, veiny creature within. Not appealing in the slightest. My eyes stayed locked on his face as I lowered my mouth, tongue reaching out. His eyes rolled back as I sucked down.

What a fucking dumbass.

Years worth of withheld poison erupted from my mouth. I reached for Singer, bashing the stone club onto his hand that held the sword. He screamed as I bit down on his pathetic excuse for a dick.

My poison flooded into the bite wound. He tried to yank my braid with his only usable hand.

I laughed, spitting a piece of penis onto his face.

“As if I’ve never had my hair pulled.”

Blood and poison dripping from my mouth, I pressed Singer into his shoulder, forcing him to release my braid. As the poison burned through his body, he shouted slurs and curses, the last bit of damage he thought he could do.

It was useless. Heirs did not concern themselves with the opinions of dickless men.

As he guppied on his last breath, I stood, using my arm to wipe the poison from my mouth.

I took in the disarray across the city. The gates were too crowded. There were too many Drakers. I had no idea where any of my friends were anymore. The people within the Waywards had given up hope. Some retreated back to their homes, while others held their hands above their heads in surrender, begging for mercy.

Even worse, four archers were perched across different buildings, all with their elbows cranked back, aims pointed at me.

My eyes stung, a hot tear rolling down my face. Years worth of anger clawed its way up my chest.

Amzee and Beck were burned out. Riven was nowhere to be seen. We were overrun by Drakers. The gate was too small. Four arrows would go through my skull if I didn’t surrender. Worst of all, I was going to die with subpar penis breath.

The archers whistled a warning.Surrender or die.

I would rather die.

A roar erupted through the sky like nothing I’d ever heard, rattling my brain. I snapped my head to the sound, shoulders dropping.

Flying at a high speed with their wings drawn back were two bladebreathers—Valeska and Zephy.

My knees buckled.

Valeska screeched, her sights on me.“There you are,”she called through my mind.

On her back was Lady Jocelynn.

I couldn’t believe it. The woman who didn’t even want to ride to Moonhill—who had no interest in leaving Castivian. The woman who had children at home and a life to live for.

She had crossed the Sea of Blades for this. And she wasn’t the only one.

Xavian was behind her, whileTristarode on the back of Zephy.

My brother and friends were here. Lady Jocelynn wasmyfriend,not just Xavian’s.

Zephy barked a blade out with precise aim, sending an archer to the ground before diving into the streets. Trista held on for dear life, red hair blazing behind her.

Amzee ran to him, spirits high. There washope, and that was stronger than any burnout.