Page 8 of Consume Me (Immortal Vices and Virtues: All Hallows’ Eve #4)

She watches me like I’m a wild animal that might pounce or flee.

And she’d be right either way. My inner beast thrashes at the horrific realization that our greatest enemy is also the one creature we cannot survive without.

After centuries of battles and countless enemies fought and felled, it’s the greatest irony to be brought to my knees, not by an enemy’s sword but by this beautiful woman who has so instantly ensnared my heart.

“What do you want?” she asks, wary but not panicked.

Her power coils just beneath her skin, veiled but potent. The promise of death, ancient and dark, wafts from her slight frame. The daggers are like predators hidden beneath the layers of her gown, humming low and threatening.

They recognize me too.

I should run her through. Use the spell carved into my skin to destroy her cursed blades once and for all. Avenge my fallen cadre like I vowed to do.

Instead, I say, “Apologies for grabbing you. From across the room, I thought you were in danger.”

“So you grabbed me instead of the threat?”

“Let me make it up to you.” I offer a quick bow, never once taking my eyes off her. “Dance with me.”

A refusal flashes in her eyes, but she merely says, “What’s your name?”

“Dance with me, and I’ll tell you.”

Her eyes narrow. “Do your entitled demands work on all the ladies?”

“I didn’t come here for all the ladies.”

“But you came here for me. ”

It’s not a question, but I see the awareness in her icy blue eyes. She knows who I am. Or at least what I want.

Does she know she’s my mate? That she belongs to both the fae in me and the beast I contain? That I cannot hurt her—even to uphold my oath?

If she does know, she doesn’t show it.

“Dance with me,” I say again, forceful enough that I wince.

Smooth , I scold myself. Really smooth.

My hand lifts before I realize I’ve moved. My voice is softer than I’ve ever heard as I add a word I’m not sure I’ve uttered for anyone, “Please.”

She stares at my offered hand. Then back at me.

There’s something like recognition in her eyes now. Not of me, specifically. But of this . The thing between us. The invisible thread that connects our souls, the connection pulling tighter by the second.

Her fingers slide into mine.

Heat slams through me like a wildfire.

Not the rune. And not lust—though that, too—but bond . A soul-deep, blood-sworn, gods-damned bond . It’s older than the rune etched into me. Longer lived than any fae could be. More ancient than a single lifetime. Or twenty.

Whoever this woman is—my mate—this is not the first life span I’ve called her mine. Nor is it our first dance.

My breath is ragged with that knowledge as we step onto the crowded dance floor.

As if orchestrated by the universe itself, the music shifts, suddenly slower than before, more intimate. In the back of my mind, I wonder if Vaelora is watching. Pulling the strings. But then my mate looks at me again, and I forget all else.

My hand finds her waist. Her palm settles lightly on my shoulder.

She fits.

Too well.

And then we begin to move. And it takes everything in me not to yank her body to mine. To press myself against her. To allow my hands to roam, to explore—to claim.

I grit my teeth as we waltz, trying to keep my thoughts clear.

She eyes me, suspicious again. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“What do I look like?”

At my flippant question, her cheeks flush, and, gods above and below, it’s the most delicious pink hue. My cock twitches in my pants, and I’m not sure I give two fucks if anyone at this party notices. Not when she looks at me like she’s guilty of some naughty thought.

“You look broody,” she says at last.

Broody? Broody ?

I snort. “I’ve been called worse.”

“I bet,” she murmurs. “You’ve got the look of someone with enemies.”

“Not to worry. They’re nearly all dead.”

She snorts. “Charming.”

In an embrace that leaves me aching for more, I spin her across the floor, and though I’m supposed to be calculating a plan, all I can do is memorize the way her breath catches when I draw her closer.

Or her full mouth with slightly parted lips, currently tempting me to forget everything I’ve worked for this past century.

Holding her in my arms feels like coming home.

And I fucking hate myself for it.

No, I hate Vaelora. In this moment, I know with absolute certainty she saw this coming and lured me here so she could watch it unfold. When I get my hands on her?—

“Who’s left?” she asks, yanking me from my malicious daydreams.

“Excuse me?”

“You said nearly all your enemies. Who’s left?”

Vaelora for one.

“Not whom,” I say before I can stop the words. “What.”

She tenses, but her expression remains aloof, confused. “What does that mean?”

“I’m a hunter of cursed things. And when I find what I’m looking for tonight, I will destroy it.”

My words, though softly uttered, hang like weapons between us.

Her lips press together, and her cheeks lose all their color. I wait, fully expecting her to continue playing at confusion or innocence. But then she says softly, “And what if the cursed thing is me?”

My jaw clenches.

And suddenly, I’m the one who wants to continue our game just a little longer.

“You don’t look cursed,” I say quietly. “You look beautiful. And maybe a bit lonely. ”

That throws her. Her mouth opens, then closes again.

She looks down. Then back up, chin lifting. “You came to kill me.”

I don’t answer, but I can’t help but be impressed that, even as she says the words, her feet never miss a step. Not a trace of fear on her as she adds, “That’s fair, I guess, since I came here to kill you too.”

My grip tightens on her hand and waist.

The daggers thrum between us. Agitated. Confused. Maybe even afraid.

They should be.

And yet—so should I.

Because I can’t do it. I can’t kill her. Not now. Not knowing what she is to me. But if I don’t fulfill my vow, if the daggers are allowed to exist, to continue to destroy… where does that leave us?

The song trails toward a slow end. My mate’s eyes lift to mine. There’s fear there now. But also something softer. Something I don’t deserve. Mercy. Hope. “What if we could?—”

Then a voice breaks through the fog between us.

“Kendall!”

Her head snaps toward the sound. I follow her gaze and glimpse a masked male. Even from here, I scent him as a wolf. He’s a shifter, not fae. Certainly not a sentinel.

Still, my teeth pull back in a snarl at the open smile he gives her. The interested gleam in his eye visible, even through the mask.

“Shit,” she mutters.

“Is he a threat?” I growl .

“What?” She looks back at me—conflicted, torn, scared. “No. He’s… I have to go,” she whispers.

The thought of her leaving, of removing her hand from mine, is enough to rile my beast.

“Kendall,” the male calls again. He’s closer now, eager to reach her.

I move to put myself between them. Ready to stop him by force if necessary.

But she’s already pulling away.

Gone before I can stop her.

Gone before I can even breathe her name.