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CHAPTER THIRTEEN

LARK

I lied to my brother.

The queen’s knights make good prey—that part is true—but they aren’t who I’m hunting for tonight. I can’t stop remembering who satisfied my hunger in the Forgotten Tower, the forbidden trysts that still linger in my mind, forever tied to the scent of rosemary perfume.

Unseen, I prowl the crooked streets of Havenwold. Moonlight gleams on the cobblestones and turns the city into something pretty. Even the gutter water looks like quicksilver, hiding its filth.

When the wind changes, it carries a hint of desire to my nose.

Of course. I'm near a brothel. The flimsy windows do little to muffle the moans inside. Closing my eyes, I breathe in the primal scent of lovers tangled in sheets, of quick fucks in darkened corners.

None of it appeals to me. Not like her .

Zin still haunts my mind—I can't stop craving her rosemary scent, good enough to eat. I need to banish her from my memories. Pausing in an alley, I press my forehead against the cold stone of the wall.

You need this , she would whisper to me. Need me .

How I hated that she spoke the truth. I have never been able to deny my nature as a succubus. Refusing to feed upon lust would lead only to starvation. She knew that when she touched me, when she?—

No .

I bite the inside of my cheek until my fangs draw blood. The sharp pain cuts through my emotions and brings clarity.

What I had with Zin wasn't love. It was nothing more than survival.

I turn my back on the brothel. They would welcome my services as a succubus, maybe even pay me in gold, but I'm not interested in feeding there tonight. Many in the kingdom of Chymeria think demons like me are whores. We often have no other way of survival.

Zin never treated me like a whore.

Even after we became enemies, even after she hated me, she always acted as if I had value. My traitorous body remembers her touch, the way she would pet my hair and tell me how much it looked like moonlight. I let her stroke my head, drunk on her spells and my own desperate hunger.

Every shadow holds echoes of dark eyes and darker magic.

I push away from the wall, forcing myself deeper into the city's maze of streets. There must be someone else who can satisfy me. I refuse to let Zin have this much power over me, even now, while I'm meant to be free.

The Raven's Head stands as a charred skeleton against the night sky.

Smoke still curls from the blackened beams of the once prosperous inn, though it must be days since its destruction.

One of my favorite hunting grounds has been reduced to ash.

I had found good prey here—lonely travelers seeking pleasure, merchants whose pockets jingled with gold.

The scorched stone bears telltale signs of dragonfire, too hot for a mundane blaze. This must be Pyrah's doing. I vaguely recall her and my brother mentioning this inn's destruction over dinner.

Movement catches my eye—a city guard nailing fresh parchment to a post near the ruins. Not just any parchment but wanted posters. After he leaves, I creep closer to examine them in the torchlight.

There we are, the three traitors to the crown.

Pyrah's likeness shows her as a dragon, soaring over a village, her jaws raining down flames. The artist captured her fearsome beauty, I will give them that. Five thousand gold pieces for her capture.

My own portrait is less flattering. They drew me with wild hair and glowing eyes, like some nightwitch from a fairy tale. Seven thousand gold pieces. The price has gone up since I escaped the Forgotten Tower.

But Rook...

A mirthless laugh escapes me. "Damn," I whisper.

For the Gray Prince, dead or alive, the reward is ten thousand gold pieces. The sketch shows Rook as a looming shadow with a tail and demon wings, which isn't entirely wrong. Queen Dulcamara must be truly desperate to offer such a fortune. Desperate, or furious at his freedom.

"Well, brother," I murmur, "looks like the queen hates you most of all."

Pyrah had asked about bounties over dinner, curious about her own worth to the crown. The answer hangs here in stark black-and-white, though I doubt she will take much comfort in being the cheapest outlaw.

Distracted by the wanted posters, I almost miss the sound of guards on night watch. Their boots scuff the cobblestones as they patrol the city. I slink deeper in the shadows, my heart pounding, ready to fight or flee.

Their voices sour the night air, thick with ale and derision.

"Did you see what that red dragon did to The Raven's Head?" The shorter guard speaks first, his words loud and sloppy. Careless. "Took out half the city by breathing fire down on our heads."

"Aye. Best ale in Havenwold, gone up in smoke." The taller guard kicks a chunk of charred wood. "Thanks to that scaly bitch."

"Fucking hate dragons."

I resist the urge to laugh. If I had to guess, Pyrah would be amused by her reputation. The Raven's Head was hardly half the city—just one inn and maybe a few nearby buildings that caught fire from drifting embers.

"Captain wants us to check every shadow twice." The shorter guard's hand rests on his sword hilt as they inspect the wanted posters. "The Gray Prince, his dragon, and that witch who escaped the Tower."

"Sorceress," his companion corrects, tapping my portrait. "This one is supposed to be right dangerous with magic."

“I hear she’s worth at least a quick fuck," the other guard muses.

“Who, the dragon?”

“God, no." He snorts. "I’m talking about the succubus. Haven’t you ever wanted your cock sucked by a succubus?”

“Those bitches have fangs. I won't let her anywhere near my cock.”

My claws bite into my palms as their disgusting laughter echoes down the street. Rage burns through my blood and sharpens the gnawing ache of hunger in my gut. How many times had I heard similar words in the Forgotten Tower, spoken by guards who wanted me to hear them?

"They get desperate without it," the first guard continues, loosening his belt. "Feed on lust like we feed on bread."

"That's how the king's whore got him, wasn't it? Sucked him dry till he couldn't think straight."

My mother . They still gossip after her even years after she vanished.

The first guard braces himself by the wall and starts to piss. Steam rises and drifts over to where I'm hiding, though he doesn't look in my direction. "Wonder if the daughter's got the same talents."

Blood wets my palms where my claws break skin. The iron scent mingles with the foul stench of the guards, making my head swim, and yet the hunger still claws inside me, demanding to be satisfied. I could drain them both dry until nothing remained but husks.

Do they know what a man looks like after a succubus destroys him?

Their corpses would turn ashen gray and wither. Their remains would crumble apart into dirt for the worms.

But I can't— shouldn't . I would be a fool to attack the guards tonight, even if it wasn’t unprovoked.

I can't afford to be captured again. While their boots scrape against cobblestones and their vulgar jokes fade into the night, I remember their faces.

Perhaps another time I can drain them in some forgotten alleyway and discard them like garbage.

Gods, I'm still hungry. I continue my hunt through the streets of Havenwold.

A young man stumbles from a tavern, his cheeks flushed pink. Perfect prey. I follow him into the shadows between buildings. His lust trails behind him—bittersweet, tinged with unrequited desire.

"Are you lost?" I step into his path.

His jaw drops and hangs open. "No, milady… I was going out to..." He sways, caught between fear and longing. Prey often recognizes predator, an instinct deep inside most humans, but ale dulls his senses.

I move closer, letting moonlight pour down upon me, turning my silver skin and pale hair luminous. "Do you want me?" The words drip from my mouth like honey, though my muscles coil with predatory intent.

His drunken mind struggles to process the question, but his body knows the answer. "Fuck, yes." His glassy stare travels over me, seeing nothing more than a pretty face and willing flesh.

He stumbles forward, his hand groping for me, though he's drunk enough that he catches himself against the alley wall instead.

The reek of piss-water ale mingles with his thickening lust. Such a simple creature, driven by nothing more than primitive urges.

Undoubtedly, he cares nothing for matters of consent.

He reaches for me. "You're the most beautiful?—"

"Shh." My smile lets him see just a hint of my fangs. My fingers trace his neck. His pulse jumps beneath my touch, fear and desire warring in his blood. "No need for pretty words."

When I touch him, his lust drowns my senses—raw, animal want without complexity or care. He sees me as nothing more than a vessel for his pleasure. Little better than a free whore.

Good . That makes this easier.

My fingertips press harder into his neck, feeling his rapid heartbeat. His hands paw at my waist, clumsy with drink, before squeezing one of my breasts. No finesse, no tenderness. This isn't about care or emotion. In the shadows, neither one of us has time for pretending.

"Close your eyes," I whisper against his ear. He obeys without hesitation, swaying slightly on his feet.

What a fool.

I press him against the alley wall. His resistance crumbles as I kiss him, just beginning to devour him.

The taste of him floods my senses—young, potent, flavored with heartache.

He wanted the tavern wench tonight, I can taste it in his kiss.

She rejected his clumsy advances, leaving him drunk and desperate, aching to find someone to release his tension.

"Let me help you forget her," I promise him.

"Her?" Fear ripples across his face. "How did you?—?"

I press a finger to his lips. "You know what I am."

His throat bobs as he swallows hard. "A succubus."

"Do you know my name?"