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CHAPTER TWENTY

ROOK

I swing my ax into another pine branch, watching it fall with a satisfying thud. Physical exertion helps quiet my mind but worry keeps gnawing at my gut. Lark should have returned hours ago. My sister promised she would return in the morning, bringing tea for Pyrah, and I haven't forgotten.

The sun climbs higher in the sky, marking time's relentless march.

Sweat drips down my back as I gather the fragrant boughs.

My muscles burn from the repetitive motion, but I welcome the distraction.

Each strike of the ax drowns out visions of Lark back in that cursed dungeon, trapped behind those cold stone walls.

My body freezes as memories of the Forgotten Tower bubble up—the guards, the chains, the isolation that nearly broke my sister's spirit.

If Dulcamara's men found my sister...

The ax bites deeper into the next branch as rage builds in my chest. If they have touched a single hair on her head, I will tear apart every knight in Chymeria.

The familiar crackle of magic pierces the air. I spin around, ax raised, only to see Lark striding through a shimmering portal.

"Where the hell have you been?" My voice comes out rougher than intended, masking the wave of relief that crashes through me.

"Nice to see you, too, brother." Lark narrows her eyes. "Brewing the tea took longer than expected."

I bury my ax in a log and force down the urge to embrace her. "Could have sent word."

"With what? A carrier pigeon?" She rolls her eyes as if I'm joking.

I shake my head. "Magic."

Remembered dread creeps through me.

I’m riding along the Emperor’s Road. A raven lands in the road, hops across the stones, and croaks at me: Lark is locked away and forgotten. The spell unravels, the raven bursting into flight and disappearing.

I spent a few days in grimy taverns, spying on the queen’s guards and bribing tavern wenches, before I understood that forgotten meant the Forgotten Tower , and that the queen had taken Lark here.

"Just don't disappear like that again." I turn back to my work and yank the ax free, hiding the tremor in my hands.

"Rook." Her voice softens. "I know what you were thinking. But I'm not going back to that tower. Ever."

I grunt, refusing to acknowledge how close she hit to the truth. Losing my sister has spawned far too many of my nightmares.

“Why are you butchering that tree?” Lark asks.

I yank down another bough. “I’m building a rough bed for Pyrah. It's hardly a mattress with featherdown pillows, but it's better than nothing. I want her to be comfortable."

With or without me , I think, though I don't say that part out loud.

"I went to Havenwold," Lark says. "Saw the ruined temple. Dragonfire?"

I grunt, continuing to strip branches. The memory of that night flashes through my mind. I'm haunted by the gleam of Pyrah's wedding dress, embroidered with cursed aellurium, when Scaldric tried to force her to marry him.

"The whole city’s still talking about it." Lark kneels beside me, picking up fallen pine needles. "A dragon and the Gray Prince, wreaking havoc on holy ground. The priests are beside themselves."

Another grunt escapes me as I swing the ax. “Blame Scaldric. We had to fight him to free Pyrah.”

"You could have been more subtle." Lark's tone carries a hint of reproach. "Drew quite a bit of attention to yourselves."

I pause midswing. "Subtlety wasn't exactly the point."

"Clearly." Lark picks up another branch, examining the cut. "Though I doubt the queen will take kindly to you burning down her temples."

I bare my teeth in what might pass for a smile. "I don't care."

"Your face is plastered all over Havenwold with the biggest bounty I've ever seen." Lark shoots me a pointed look. "Ten thousand gold pieces. Queen Dulcamara must really want your head."

I grunt, returning to my task. Bounties are nothing new—I have had a price on my head since I first escaped into the Thornwood. The amount doesn't matter. They will have to catch me first.

"You could at least pretend to be concerned," Lark mutters.

"Why start now?" I swing the ax, letting the sharp crack of wood split the air. "Besides, you're worth almost as much these days. Five thousand, wasn't it?"

"Seven," she corrects with a hint of pride. "Though Pyrah's bounty is only five thousand. The queen must not consider her as much of a threat."

"Yet." The word slips out before I can stop it. “I'm worried her bounty will grow because she's with us.”

Lark grimaces. "I hate that you’re probably right.”

We work together to fashion the pine boughs into a bed.

It looks more like a nest, in the end, which seems oddly suitable for a dragon shifter.

I test the bed myself. It’s definitely better than lying on the stone floor of the cave or curling around heaps of treasure—though of course I'm a demon, not a dragon.

There's nothing more satisfying than spending the day on hard work, then admiring your rewards at the end of it. I should be happy, but I’m tormented by a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Something is missing.

Something I must find.

This isn’t enough.

The branches crackle beneath my weight as I lie on them. My throat burns with thirst, a constant reminder of my incubus needs. This morning by the lake, when Pyrah took me in her mouth, I held back. Kept my incubus nature locked away, refusing to feed on her lust.

I couldn't risk draining her further, not when she needs her strength.

But the hunger claws at my insides now, a ravenous beast demanding satisfaction. Without the soulstone to balance us, to let me feed without harm, I'm trapped between starvation and the fear of hurting her.

I cross my arms and dig my claws into my skin, welcoming the sharp sting of pain. It's better than this constant thirst, this maddening balance between desire and restraint. Without the soulstone, every touch, every kiss, every moment of passion becomes a dangerous game.

Later that night, we linger around the campfire by the lake.

Lark cooks mushroom soup in a cauldron she brought from home.

Bits of wild onion and foraged sage float in the broth.

The savory aroma of dinner should make my mouth water, but I’m distracted by the hollow ache in my stomach, the weakness spreading through my limbs.

Reflected flames glitter in the black waters of the lake. Out there in the darkness, there are quests I have not yet begun. I can’t stay here any longer, not while I’m haunted by everything left unsaid and undone.

Firelight dances across Pyrah's face as she laughs at something Lark said. I missed whatever it was.

“Rook.” Lark stirs the soup like a witch brewing a potion. "Remember when we found those giant puffballs outside the castle? Mum cooked them with butter and garlic.”

I grunt. “That was a long time ago.”

"Puffballs?" Pyrah leans forward, eager to hear more stories of our childhood. "What do they taste like?”

“Earthy,” Lark says, “with a hint of a nutty taste. Sometimes they grow bigger than your head.”

“You have me convinced. Would you cook them for me someday?”

“Of course.”

They both imagine a future with good food and good company. I’m afraid the truth looks far bleaker.

Lark ladles the soup into bowls before Pyrah brings me mine. Her fingertips brush against mine, and even this instant of contact makes my heartbeat pound. Hunger gnaws deeper in my stomach, a primal need that has nothing to do with food.

I swallow hard before muttering, “Thanks.”

I should have fed this morning by the lake. But I lied to Pyrah, told her I only needed to feed every few days. The truth is far worse—as a cambion, my incubus nature demands that I feed nearly every day.

My fingers clench around the wooden bowl. Even now, Pyrah tempts me like a delicious fruit. My mouth waters at the memory of her sweet desire. But I can't devour her again. Not so soon.

"Rook?" Pyrah says. "You haven’t eaten a bite of your soup.”

I force a smile that feels more like a grimace. "Just tired."

Lark's keen gaze pins me to the spot. As a succubus herself, she understands the hunger that plagues demons like us.

But Pyrah remains innocent. She doesn’t know how much I need her. Doesn't know how dangerous I could become. Each time I feed, I risk taking too much, draining her life until nothing remains.

"Here." Pyrah sits right beside me, her thigh pressing against mine. "At least try the mushrooms. They taste delicious.”

Her scent drifts over to my nose and tugs at me like a fishhook. The muscles between my shoulders twitch as my shadow wings threaten to escape. I edge away, putting space between us.

"I need some air." The words sound gruffer than I intended. I stand, avoiding the hurt on Pyrah’s face.

I stride away from the firelight, into the darkness where the hunger can't betray me. Where I can't hurt her. The unspoken truth burns in my throat. I'm terrified of what I might do if I let myself feed from her again. Terrified of becoming the monster my father always said I was.

Footsteps crunch in the gravel behind me. I don't need to turn around to know who it is—Pyrah’s scent wraps around me like an embrace.

"What's wrong?" she asks, quietly. "You're acting strange."

"It's nothing." I keep my back to her, my fists clenched at my sides.

Gravel pops underfoot as she comes even closer to me. "You're hungry, aren't you? I can tell.”

“Not very.” The lie tastes bitter on my tongue.

"You haven't fed at all today." Her fingertips brush the back of my hand.

I jerk away from her touch. "I said I'm fine."

“Kiss me, then. A devouring kiss."

I slice my hand through the air, dismissing her at once. "No."

"Why not?"

Something clicks into place, a truth I had never considered before. "Because I don't want to."

She steps in front of me and meets my gaze. "What?"

"My consent matters, too." The realization strikes deep. "Just because you're willing doesn't mean I have to feed."

"But you need?—"