Page 93 of Blackheart

ButIwas not the Waywards.

She was bold to call me a monster to my face, even bolder to insinuate I could not read.

“Can you?” I hissed. Her eyes widened into saucers as I crossed the room, fists clenched tight. I had done nothing to her, nor the other girls in the tavern for them to treat me like an abomination.

The other two backed away as I came toe to toe with the head wench.

“Oh look, the monster is mad.” She laughed before pushing my shoulders, sending me back a step.

My blood boiled as the entire tavern fell silent. She was still smiling, mocking me.

“You’re right. I am.” I gripped her arm. Her face fell as I twisted it low to my waist. There were no Drakers to stop me, and I would love for someone to make me face the Lord of Castivian for punishment.

The entire tavern stared, but I didn’t give a slickfuck. I would give them all something to remember about a Drakish Blackheart.

“Let go of me, you Waywards garbage!” she demanded, trying to pull away. I gripped tighter, yanking her arm straight.

I am inescapable.

“I’d recommend not moving.” With my opposite hand, I traced a finger along the skin of her forearm. She screamed and thrashed, but I did not budge. It only made my handwriting worse.

Once I released my grip, ‘Elora’ was crudely written across her forearm, forged in Blackheart poison.

It was enough to burn like hell, but not to kill, hopefully.

She fell to the floor, unfortunately not dead. She screeched at the sight of her arm.

I had no sympathy to offer, only a reminder.

“Thatis my name, should you forget it again.”

Customers fled the tavern, as if I would brand every one of them if they stayed long enough.

Gia glared from behind the bar. Her lips a flat line as she slammed a glass on the counter.

“Get out.”

I hadn’t planned on staying anyway.

Singer beamed at my hip. She wanted a chance to be dangerous, too. If the Castivian nights were as bad as everyone said, she would have her moment. I returned to my room only to cram my few belongings into my bag. My parting gift was a green finger under one of their pillows.

The moon greeted me as I ventured out into the streets, blinded by fury and with no direction.

Everyone else in Castivian seemed to have plans. I passed house parties, taverns, brothels, and even smoking lounges.

As the night went on, I relived every miserable moment of my life while my feet guided me aimlessly.

I thought about my mother leaving. I thought about how easily I let them put me in the Waywards, like some wild animal craving capture. I thought about every man who had once tried to claim my body, as if they were owed a portion of me.

It must have been past closing hours, because as I turned a corner, there was a muffled struggle down a pathway. I pulled out Singer, gripping the handle while the orb illuminated the alley blue.

A hideous man with rust-colored hair shouted at me. “This one is mine, stay back!” He held a smaller man viciously by the collar.

“The land you walk on ismine,” I seethed.

My poison shot from Singer’s gem, smothering the man’s face in the blink of an eye. He fell to his knees, crashing to the ground.

The smaller man was grateful to be released, brushing off his stone covered palms and nodding sheepishly before running away, as if I might consider going for him next.