Page 35 of Claimed In Darkness

35

NAIRA

I should let him die. Let the enemies take him.

Let them drag him back to his father in chains, let them carve his name into a fucking tombstone, let them be the ones to put an end to the monster I could never kill myself.

It would be easier.

Easier than watching her place her hand on his chest, easier than hearing the soft venom in her voice, easier than knowing that I was never his, never the only, never meant to fucking matter.

I should let him bleed for his mistakes.

But instead—I move.

No one gets to hurt him but me.

The High Council’s guards don’t see me at first.

I am still in the shadows, still unseen, still watching like some lurking beast in the dark.

They think they have won.

Think they have already taken him.

That is their first fucking mistake.

I step out from behind the trees, my dagger already moving.

The first blade slides into a throat, clean, quick, easy.

The body drops.

The second falls before he can even draw breath.

I do not fight with grace.

I do not fight with honor.

I fight to end them.

To rip through flesh and break through bone and make them regret the moment they ever set eyes on Zephiran Zacria.

By the time the third man hits the dirt, they realize what’s happening.

Finally turn. Finally see me.

That’s when the real war begins.

Shouts ring through the clearing.

Swords scrape free from their sheaths.

Boots thunder against the earth.

There’s no hesitation in my movements.

I duck the first blade, spin beneath the second, drag my dagger across exposed ribs, cut deep, watch the warm spray of blood paint the night.

It is brutal.

It is ruthless.

It is what I was made for.

They come at me in waves, fast and unrelenting, but I am faster.

Smaller.

Hungrier.

The relic inside me thrums, power curling under my skin, twisting through my veins, making me stronger than I should be.

Stronger than them.

The world blurs, every motion sharp and violent, every strike deadly.

I should not be winning.

I should not be this fast, this precise, this fucking unstoppable.

But I am.

Because something inside me is changing.

And I am too far gone to care.

He shouldn’t have needed my help.

He shouldn’t have let himself be taken by surprise.

But he did.

And now he fights with me.

With rage, with fire, with the knowledge that he was fooled, that he was used, that he was played like a fucking puppet by the same hands that once swore they loved him.

We move together.

Not speaking.

Not needing to.

We fight together with claws, with teeth, with blood and breath and the kind of violence that makes lesser men tremble.

I feel the moment his blade cuts a throat just inches from my shoulder.

He feels the moment I twist and slam my dagger hilt into a skull right behind him.

We are an unstoppable thing.

A force of fucking ruin.

And when the last body hits the dirt, gurgling on its own blood, we are still standing.

Still breathing.

And I am still shaking.

I have never felt this alive.

Never felt this hungry.

Never felt this close to something else, something darker, something worse.

She has not moved.

Not once.

She stands at the boundary of the carnage, watching, waiting, calculating.

There is no fear in her eyes.

Only understanding.

And I fucking detest her for it.

She sees me too clearly.

Sees what I just did.

Sees what I have become.

She is not surprised.

A slow, knowing smile pulls at her lips.

"You’re finally showing your true self," she murmurs.

I step toward her, my blade still dripping.

"Say another word," I whisper, "and I’ll cut out your tongue."

Her smile widens.

"You can try."

The tension between us crackles.

It is not jealousy.

It is not hatred.

It is something worse.

Recognition.

She knows what I am.

Aereth smiles but behind her, Zephiran appears.

Before Aereth can say anything, any lies or explanation, Zephiran stabs her in the heart.

As she bleeds black, she smiles and slowly fades away, turning into powder.

Her body disappears, and I come face to face with Zephiran. The look in his eyes is haunted but no sorrow.

He only has me in his eyes.

"Naira."

His voice is hoarse, ragged, full of things I can’t name.

I turn to him, expecting anger, fury, something vicious.

But what I see instead?—

Is fear.

Not for himself.

Not for Aereth.

For me.

For what he just saw me do.

For what I have become.

For what the relic has made me.

A slow, cold realization slithers up my spine.

He is not looking at me like his enemy.

He is looking at me like his greatest fucking regret.

That is the moment I know.

That no matter how I tried to fight it, even if I have denied it, no matter how many fucking times I swore I would never let him own me?—

I was never supposed to survive him.

I am already ruined.

He was always meant to destroy me.

Or worse?—

I was always meant to destroy myself.