Page 19

S uddenly, the weight pinning me down vanishes. Dayn releases my wrists and pushes himself away in one fluid motion, leaving me gasping on his crimson sheets. The abrupt absence of his direct heat makes the room feel cool by comparison.

I scramble upright, my hand reaching instinctively for the blade that isn’t there.

Dayn crosses to the wardrobe with unhurried steps, his back to me—an irritating show of confidence.

The ember-lines beneath his skin pulse once before fading to a dull glow as he retrieves a simple white shirt.

He pulls it over his head in a casual motion, the fabric settling over the strange markings on his skin, hiding whatever power pulses beneath.

I push myself off the bed, straightening my rumpled clothes, and scan the room for my weapons. The obsidian blade lies on the floor near the foot of the bed. The silver dagger has skittered under a side table. Both might as well be miles away with Dayn standing between us .

He gestures to a high-backed chair. “Sit.”

“I prefer to stand,” I reply, edging toward the obsidian blade.

Dayn’s mouth quirks in a half-smile. “Your preference is noted. However—” he flicks his wrist and the blade slides across the floor, coming to rest at his feet, “—I insist.”

I weigh my options, but don’t see many at the moment, other than to scowl at him, move to the chair, and perch on its edge, muscles tense, ready to spring into action if necessary. Dayn takes a seat opposite me.

“Now that we’ve dispensed with the pretense of you murdering me tonight,” he says, his tone turning conversational, as if we’d been discussing the weather rather than trying to kill each other moments ago, “I suggest we discuss the proposal I made to you earlier.”

The proposal. His words in the classroom echo in my mind. Break the binding ritual, and I’ll ensure Heathborne can never create another Emissary.

“You’re asking me to help you break your binding contract with Heathborne,” I say, watching his face for any reaction. “Why should I trust you’d follow through on your end of the bargain?”

Dayn leans forward, those golden eyes studying me with unnerving intensity. “Because unlike the clearblood aristocracy you so despise, I keep my word.”

“Your word means nothing to me.”

“And yet, here you are.” He gestures to the space between us. “Not dead, despite your attempt on my life, and still listening.”

I fold my arms across my chest. “I’m listening because you’re holding me captive. ”

“Am I?” He raises an eyebrow. “The door is right there, Esme. You’re free to leave whenever you wish… Of course, whether you’d make it back to Darkbirch is another matter.”

The threat hangs in the air between us. We both know I could try to escape—and we both know that his runes, the extent of whose powers are still unclear to me, remain carved on my skin.

While he’s alive, I doubt I can risk returning to my coven without putting the lives of everyone I care about at risk.

I stare back at him in disgust.

“You need me,” I say, after a beat. “Otherwise, I’d already be dead.”

“Perceptive.” Dayn rises from his chair and walks to the window, his back to me again.

“As explained, what I’m proposing will benefit us both.

The binding ritual that connects me to Mazrov is the same one that gives Heathborne the ability to create Emissaries in the first place.

Break that bond, and my bond to Heathborne, and you neutralize the clearbloods’ greatest weapon against your people. ”

“And grant you freedom in the process,” I say, eyes narrowed.

Dayn turns back to face me, moonlight casting half his face in shadow. “Yes, freedom. The chance to pursue my own interests without being leashed to Heathborne’s agenda.”

“Which are?”

“None of your concern.” His tone carries a finality that makes it clear he won’t elaborate.

I rise from the chair, matching his stance. “You expect me to help you break free so you can become an even greater threat? I’m not a fool, Dayn. ”

“No, you’re not,” he agrees, stepping closer. “You’re a survivor. And right now, survival means working with me.”

The air between us thickens with tension.

After a moment, he continues, “The steps required to break the binding are, admittedly, dangerous. And they require someone with darkblood abilities. Your connection to death essence is... unique. Essential.”

“You’re asking me to risk my life to free you?” I say flatly.

“The alternative is watching your people die,” he responds. “Mazrov was just the prototype. Heathborne has plans to create an entire division of Emissaries, each one designed specifically to hunt darkbloods.”

I set him with a hard glare. “I thought you said only three can be bound to you at once.”

“ Currently ,” he replies, “but they’re working on ways around that.”

I don’t know whether to believe him. Dragons aren’t known to be trustworthy creatures with their friends, let alone with their enemies. Still, a chill runs through me at the idea that he could be speaking the truth. “Do you have proof of this?”

“I’ve seen the blueprints. The resource allocations. The training grounds being prepared.” His golden eyes lock with mine. “They’ll be operational within six months.”

I pace away from him. If what he’s saying is true—and that’s a significant if —then that is obviously a threat we can’t afford to risk.

We’d struggle to stand a chance against an army of fully-developed Mazrovs.

Maybe even an on-the-loose dragon would be better than that.

After all, my kind managed to drive them to near-extinction centuries ago. Here, we’d be dealing with only one.

“What exactly would this ritual entail?” I ask, turning back to him. I loathe to play his game, but unless and until I figure out how to kill him, I don’t see a better way to spend my time here.

“Three phases,” Dayn replies, something like satisfaction flickering across his features.

“First, locating the physical manifestation of the binding—a relic hidden somewhere in Heathborne. Second, preparing the counter-ritual, which requires ingredients only accessible to someone with your... particular talents. And third—” he pauses, his eyes taking on that burning quality again, “—performing the unbinding itself.”

I frown. “Why haven’t you already done the first step? Why would you need my help for that?”

“First, because there’s a risk searching for it could attract… attention. Attention I wish to avoid until I’m ready to actually perform the ritual. Second, two heads are likely more useful than one for this.”

“And the risks in all of this?” I ask.

“Considerable.” He doesn’t bother to sugarcoat it. “The ritual could kill us both if performed incorrectly. Even if successful, there will be... consequences.”

“What kind of consequences?”

“The kind we’ll deal with when the time comes.”

I glare at him while weighing my options. They’re painfully limited.

If I refuse, I’m probably as good as dead, either now or later when Heathborne unleashes their Emissaries.

Dayn’s assertion that Heathborne is planning to create an army of them rings true: how else will the Emissaries be truly effective against us?

Clearbloods never stop at one when they can have more.

If I agree to help Dayn, I’m still gambling with my life, but potentially incurring less of a risk for the future of all darkbloods. I don’t appreciate his vagueness regarding possible consequences, but the situation looks pretty grim either way.

“Fine,” I finally say, the word feeling like a bitter, toxic surrender. “I’ll help you break the bond.”

Something flashes in his eyes—triumph, relief, or something darker—before his expression smooths back to careful neutrality.

“A wise decision.”

“But understand this,” I continue, stepping closer until we’re almost touching, my voice dropping to a whisper that promises violence.

“If you betray me, if a single darkblood dies because of you, I will find a way to destroy you. I don’t care what it costs me.

I don’t care what ancient power burns beneath your skin. I will end you.”

A slow smile spreads across his full lips. “Promises, promises. I wouldn’t expect less from a Salem.”