Page 6 of Cruelly Fated (Princes of Avari #1)

Five

KYON

I t took everything in me not to glance back at her.

Those legs—tanned, toned, built to wrap around a man’s waist—went on forever.

The snug top clung to curves meant to test a male’s restraint.

But that face… Fae gods would weep trying to recreate something half as perfect.

Long, thick lashes framed eyes the color of violet dusk—too rare for this world.

A perfect little button nose, and lips so full an d pouty.

Pure temptation. If she had a boyfriend, he’d better kiss her every damn chance he got.

And just like that, the thrill in my chest fizzled. My jaw tightened.

Of course, she had one. This explains why she bailed on the illusion as if it scorched her. Guilt, perhaps? One thing was for sure, she didn’t come here for a spark. And she sure as hell didn’t come for me .

By the time I reached my bench, the burn in my gut had nothing to do with her. My scowl deepened. I’d claimed the bottom bench the first week I got here. Fought for it. Bled for it. No one had touched it since.

Until now.

Aragon, leader of a smaller prison gang, sprawled across my seat, arms behind his head. That inked face split with a smug, ugly grin. Bastard had never dared push me before.

So today was the day.

I swung my leg hard, aiming straight for his ribs—only for his body to blur into gray smoke. Shit. I lost my balance, pivoted in midair, and dropped onto the bench like a dead weight, spine cracking against the ledge behind me.

Slow clapping echoed above. Followed by snickers.

I looked up.

Son of a bitch.

Aragon lounged on the top row now—actually there this time—lips curled in amusement. Why pull that on me now ?

I clenched my jaw and faced forward, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing he had my attention.

“What a talent,” Aragon drawled. “Tell me you’re molding this beauty, not just trying to bang her.”

My hands curled into fists, knuckles popping as I flexed them open.

I shouldn’t have been surprised he’d seen through the ordeal—Aragon was the only bastard in this pit who could’ve seen the girl’s illusion.

When the court—under my father’s iron thumb—dumped me in this cesspool, Valor slipped me a file listing all inmates and their gifts.

I’d skimmed it, focusing on the top ten.

Aragon had sat at number one. His gift of sight let him pierce the veil—ghosts, echoes, things that shouldn’t be seen.

And apparently, he could conjure illusions, too.

“We only just met,” I said coolly, keeping my voice neutral. Truth wouldn’t hurt either of us.

He whistled low and slow. I didn’t turn. He can talk to my back or piss off.

“Did you feel her touch you?” he pressed. “I bet you did. She looked real cozy in your lap—”

“Your point?” I ground the words out. The dragon inside me stirred, coiled and ready to defend what’s ours. It didn’t like sharing. A sentiment I wholeheartedly shared.

“Easy, scaly boy. I’ve got no sights on her.” He paused. “Yet.”

I snarled, exposing the savage in me. That wasn’t a denial—it was a fucking warning. Did I mention I don’t share?

“Stay the fuck away,” I said.

His jumpsuit creaked as he leaned forward, elbows scraping against his knees. Was he trying to get under my skin? He might get his wish soon…

“Most illusionists can’t mimic touch,” he mused. “They can’t fake weight or heat. Their creations vanish the second they come in contact with another living thing—like mine did when you kicked it.”

A rough, throaty chuckle escaped him, droning in my ears like a dare. “I’ve only met one fae who could do what she just did to you. And I’ve been around, dragon.”

I slanted a look over my shoulder, sizing him up. Aragon might have a few more years on me, but he wasn’t as old as he liked to act.

He caught my eye and smirked. “I’ve been around,” he said again like that explained why I ought to listen to his blathering.

“I’m still waiting for you to make a damn point,” I sneered.

He flashed his pearl-white teeth in a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Your girl’s got a rare gift. She could become a weapon in the right hands—no limits to what she could do. All it takes is the right kind of touch to shape her.”

I faced the courts, a deep groove forming on my forehead as I weighed his words. A weapon? Interesting concept. Although the girl could bring men to their knees with her looks alone. Something I doubted she was aware of.

When I glanced over my shoulder, the gargoyle was gone.

The food in the mess hall looked like vomit. Gray, brown, and yellowish mush, supposedly packed with “nutrients” to keep prisoners alive. Most days, I settled for an apple. At least it was red.

But today, I had different plans.

I intended to make a friend over dinner. And there was no better way to mark a new alliance than sharing a meal.

Ten inmates in front of me shifted aside without a word, giving me a clear path to the front. I flicked my wrist in a silent signal. Not today. I wanted to watch first.

It didn’t take long.

A thug from across the hall hurled an apple core at an old man hunched at a table near the center—one of the tables reserved for the misfits, the loners, the ones no gang bothered claiming—unwritten rule. I had my spot by the far wall. I ate like a ruler overseeing his crumbling kingdom.

The second apple hit its mark, striking the old man’s chest with a thud and falling into his lap. He picked up the fruit and set it on the table before picking up his plastic spoon with a trembling hand.

Old Pete. Despite what the girl assumed, I didn’t know him personally, but I knew about every soul locked in this pit. He was fresh meat. New blood. The easy target every prison needed to sharpen its teeth on.

I grabbed a tray, accepted a bowl of whatever sludge they were slinging today, and snagged two apples. The cook opened his mouth to bark about ration limits—but one look from me, and he thought better of it, slamming another scoop of mush onto the tray behind mine.

I cut through the center of the hall, timing my steps.

When another apple flew toward the old man’s face, I snatched it out of the air with one hand.

The hall fell silent.

I tossed the apple once, twice, then curled my fingers around it.

I lifted my gaze, glaring at the grinning bastards at the longest table in the back claimed by the gargoyle gang.

“Who threw this?” I asked, even though I already knew.

The scrape of a chair echoed across the hall as one inmate kicked his legs back, trying to put space between us. Smart—though it wouldn’t save him. His leader wouldn’t even miss him after tonight. The gang had an ample amount of disposables.

“It wasn’t meant for you, man,” the punk called out, voice cracking despite the bravado.

I scowled. Sweat beads popped on his forehead. I flicked the apple into the air again, letting it spin lazily in my hand.

“Old Pete’s with me.” I amplified my voice, letting it ripple through the room.

The gargoyle shrank in his seat, darting desperate looks at his crew.

“Hands on the table,” I ordered.

He obeyed, swallowing hard enough that I heard it from across the space.

“Hold him,” I said, jerking my chin at the two biggest men beside him. They didn’t argue. They clamped down on his arms, pinning him in place.

I set my tray down carefully like I had all the time.

“Catch,” I said.

Then I pulled my arm back and hurled the fruit like a fastball.

Crack .

The hard fruit met its target. His head snapped back with a sickening pop. His buddies let go, and he slumped to the floor, blood pouring from his shattered nose.

One statement and one broken body—that was how you carved your name into the bones of a place like this.

Two guards strode over, grabbing him under the arms without much interest. They didn’t even look at me. Just hauled the unconscious body away like garbage. At the Avari Penitentiary, violence was punishable if it involved weapons or physical contact.

I’d used neither.

They lifted him by his armpits and his head bobbed forward. Inmates hissed as they got a glimpse of a nose missing a tip and blood flowing like lava .

With the bracelet suppressing shifter healing, that nose would never set right. He’d have a permanent reminder not to fuck with me and serve as a warning to others.

I dragged a chair from the next table and straddled it beside Old Pete.

After the guards hauled the kid out, the posturing around the hall dragged on for a few tense minutes. I sat vigil, staring daggers across the tables.

His gang stirred, calculating their chances against me. I met every one of their glowers with the same message: Try it, and I’ll rip you apart.

They were pack animals, feeding off each other’s bravado like hyenas.

All noise and swagger—until one of them hesitated.

And hesitation killed a mob faster than a blade.

One by one, they deflated, sinking into their seats.

Dissatisfied. But breathing—for now. When the last of them settled, I finally shifted my focus to the old man at my side.

Pete hadn’t moved a muscle. He sat stiff as stone like he could turn invisible if he stayed still long enough.

I tilted my head toward him. “Kyon.”

“They call me Old Pete,” he whispered.

Good. He still had enough fight to talk. I gave him a slight nod.

“I wish you hadn’t done that…” he muttered, voice rough. “The young man… You caused major damage to his face.”

I stopped stirring my fork through the sludge on my tray and arched an eyebrow at him.

Worried about the punk who’d been harassing him?

How far would Pete have let them push him?

Judging by his demeanor, I already knew the answer: all the way to the grave.

Once a pack scented weakness, they didn’t stop until nothing was left to tear apart.

“He—and everyone else in this hellhole—will leave you alone now,” I said, voice clipped. “You’re under my protection.”

“I beg your pardon?” Pete wiped sweat from his brow, blinking at me. “I truly don’t—”

I waved his next words off. “It’s done.”

“But…I have nothing to repay you with for your offer,” the man said, genuine confusion clouding his battered features.

I bit into my apple, scrutinizing him. What the hell was wrong with this family?

Too pure for their own damn good. First, the granddaughter—bold enough to pull a stunt on me without even realizing whose cage she rattled.

Now this old man, worried about saving the same wolves who wanted him buried six feet under.

“There’s one thing you can do for me,” I said.

Old Pete’s eyes lit up with something close to hope—poor fool.

“Tell me more about you,” I said smoothly. “Do you have any children? Granddaughters perhaps…?”