Page 6 of Cursed Evermore

A minute passed, then another. Not once did he blink.

Fuck.This was a waste of time.

Behind me, Bastian, Alaric, and Garrick—my Bloodsworn—stood in silent watch. Their lives and magic were bound to me by oath to protect the kingdom. But as members of my Veythral Circle, they were also my closest and most trusted advisors. They knew me. They knew my frustration. They knew how close I was to the edge of insanity.

One glance at their faces told me everything. This interrogation, like the last, was proof of how deeply the rebellion had sunk its claws into the kingdom. It was a ravenous blight, rotting us from the inside out.

I was the Prince of Galaythia. Wolfe Nightblade. Heir to the Elder Fae Royals who had ruled for several millennia. If not for my curse, I would have seized my birthright and sat on the throne.

Regardless of my title, when an elder Fae demanded information, you gave it.

To withholdanythingfrom me was as good as treason. That was common knowledge, ingrained in every mind of the Galaythian Fae folk and all kingdoms of Vaelthorne.

Yet here was this fucker maintaining his silence like a mortal preserving air.

And he wasn’t the first. He was the second rebel we’d brought down here tonight. The first had been exactly the same.Silent. Unyielding.

They’d acted like those who’d made unbreakable oaths or had something more to lose than their lives. Family, friends,everything they cared about.

We’d ambushed the rebels in the woods just before the Phantom Moon rose.

Disguised as revelers on their way to the palace for the festival, they had nearly fooled us.Nearly.

A dagger tattooed beneath the scruffy hair on this one's neck marked them as insurgents. The insignia should have been warning enough. But nothing could have prepared me for finding the mutilated bodies of two handmaidens in their carriage. Handmaidens I’d known all my life.

This bastard and his companion had raped and murdered them, then their bodies were defiled in a way that only the gods of the six hells could fathom.

I smelled the essence ofthisrebel all over the handmaidens’ remains, evidence that he had hurt them the most. And all this fucker could do was look at me.

That was fine. I would be his worst nightmare.

The air in the dungeon already reeked of old blood, damp rot, and the dead. But now there was something more. Something worse. The scent offear.

I stepped closer, letting him see the silent warning in my eyes that there would be no mercy shown here tonight.His only choice washowhe died. Fast or fucking slow.

From his resistance, I knew he’d chosen slow.Good. I wanted to feel him break, and I’d savor every second of bleeding the life from his miserable body.

The rebels had been a problem since the death of my father. He was the last King of Galaythia. Five years had passed since, and the kingdom had been in turmoil with the growing rebellion.

Galaythians had always had a king. Never a cursed prince, damned from claiming his crown. Now my uncle Dreynthor ruled as steward while rebels and lords alike schemed for the throne.

Before last week, there was an uprising here and there. Now, dissent had turned to bloodshed with the murders of the Elder Fae High Counselor, the handmaidens, and the Royal Galdrmester. Along with the attempted assassination of Dreynthor.

My patience was gone. All that remained was the blade, the blood, and his fucking silence.

I inhaled, flexing my fingers against the pommel of my knife. “Last time, navoshka.” I used the crass insult foridiotin his common tongue.

From the few words he’d spat earlier,when he told me to go fuck myself, I had placed his accent as from River Clan filth. They were criminals but intelligent enough to despise an insult likenavoshka. The flicker of hate in the rebel’s swollen eyes told me my jab hit the mark.

“Speak of your leaders and their schemes before I tear the words from your throat.” How many times had I spoken those fucking words tonight? I was beginning to sound like an echo raven, those loathsome birds that irritated the hells out of me. “Talk right now. Or you’re dead.”

A flicker of something, maybe uncertainty, flashed in the rebel’s eyes.For a brief moment, I entertained the thought that he may succumb to fear.

But then the look disappeared, replaced by cold defiance.

Nothing came from his bloodied, blistered lips. Just his ragged breathing whichclashed withthe weight of the tension in the air.

I yanked my knife out of his gut. His sweaty head drooped in agony and his shoulders sagged as though the life had already been drained from him.