Page 23 of Divine Fate (Cursed Legacies #4)

22

MAVEN

My exhausted brain wants to dream about things I’ve experienced, but since the pieces are missing, it makes do with shadow puppets instead. I sink deeper into this heavy darkness, more exhausted than I’ve ever been as tendrils of nothingness try to take up my mind’s stage.

The only dream I can make sense of is me sitting at the edge of a sea of clouds, golden liquid dripping from my arm and fingertips as I concentrate on…something.

Finally, the darkness ebbs until I claw my way groggily to the surface. Heat sears inside my chest in place of a heart. When it passes, a wave of weakness almost drags me back into unconsciousness.

“There’s our girl,” Crypt’s voice rasps, but it’s strained.

Blinking my eyes open, I frown at the colorless, icicle-covered chandelier above me in this freezing space. Why can’t I move my arms? They’re crossed in front of me, banded so tightly they’ve gone numb.

Then there’s whatever the fuck is covering my mouth. My breathing stutters as alarm sets in.

Something is very wrong.

We’re not in Arati’s temple anymore, so where the hell are we?

“Maven?” Everett checks.

He sounds bad, too.

Fighting through the residual heaviness of that impossibly deep sleep, I struggle against the claustrophobic tightness around me. I can’t make this thing that I’m trapped inside budge an inch, but I hear chains rattling. Apparently, they tied more of those around whatever this shit is.

Thanks to the tape covering my lips, I can’t curse out loud, but that doesn’t stop me from growling in helpless frustration and trying harder.

Crypt swears before quickly explaining, “It’s called a straitjacket, love. Careful not to fall off the sofa.”

Sofa?

Where the fuck are we?

Finally, I’m able to half-swivel on the cushioned surface, which sure enough turns out to be a sofa. This room is excessively nice, complete with mirrors, sconces, chandeliers, rugs, a fireplace, a desk?—

It’s a suite, I realize. A completely colorless, expensive-looking one.

I’m on a couch facing a fireplace with a limited view of everything else, unable to see my matches. That’s not going to fucking work, so despite Crypt’s repeated worried warning, I intentionally fall off the couch so that I can roll on the notably charred carpet to see them.

Oh my fucking gods.

Everett is in a straitjacket like mine, minus the extra chains. A fabric bag is over his head. He’s been left on his back on the massive bed.

Crypt is encased from the shoulders down in bronze—clearly the work of a skilled metal elemental. He’s propped up against one wall with the mother of all syringes stuck into the side of his neck at an angle.

When my gorgeous Nightmare Prince sees me on the floor, he tries for a smile that is more of a grimace. His mesmerizing violet eyes are a burst of color compared to the rest of this grayscale room, and his markings light up now and then.

“Whatever is in this damned syringe, it’s kept me from plane-walking for the twenty-four hours we've been stuck in here. Luckily, it's not quite as vile as the smell of the drink they’ve been forcing down Frost’s throat to nullify his abilities.”

Twenty-four hours. I take it we were captured by someone with resources, but…

I’m momentarily distracted when a ghost passes through a wall. It’s a young woman with bright blue hair. When she sees I'm awake, she looks excited before disappearing through another wall.

Straining on the ground, I try to see into the other corners of this extensive suite. Baelfire has to be here, somewhere. And Silas.

They have to be here, because if I lost them again?—

“They put our necromancer in isolation,” Crypt offers, still sounding pained even though he’s trying to hide it. “Decimus was dragged out a bit ago for starting fires again. Not to worry, darling. They always bring him back quickly.”

“We’re still in New York,” Everett adds. “At my parents’ favorite luxury hotel, across the street from Arati’s high temple. They’re the they Crypt mentioned.”

He sums things up quickly as I try to worm toward the nearest wall so I can sit up while still keeping a view of them. Apparently, we were captured at Arati’s temple while I was passed out. Aside from Silas, we’ve been kept in this room the entire time, but even though Everett hasn’t been let out to see the place, he’s positive this is where the cowardly elite legacies disappeared to once the Divide fell and all hell broke loose.

“A void is posted outside,” he finishes bitterly. “I haven’t seen Asher Douglas since we were taken. He’s probably dead.”

“Such a shame,” Crypt sighs.

Everett’s bag-muffled voice is pure skepticism. “Uh-huh. Let me guess. You’re only sad you weren’t the one to kill him.”

“Naturally. He shot Maven.”

“I made him pay me back triple for that in blood when he showed up at Everbound wanting to work for me. You were there.”

“Doesn’t count, since I was too numb to enjoy it properly.” Crypt looks back at me, concern and raw affection eclipsing everything else on his face. “You all right, love?”

I nod, still trying and failing to get some wiggle room in this godsdamned straitjacket. If it were any looser, I would try to get my arms over my head, but it’s ridiculously tight, and that’s before the chains they wrapped several times around me. It’s a marvel that I could still breathe while unconscious in this thing.

As far as torture devices go, this one is quickly earning my respect. And the extra chain reinforcements? Honestly, the fact that they hindered me this thoroughly is flattering. It’s almost like I killed some of the most powerful beings in the world to get to this point.

They must be terrified of me.

“I’ll make you a bouquet of fingers from the soon-to-be fingerless legacy who dared confined you in that and put that fucking tape over your mouth,” Crypt promises.

Gods, I missed his sweet violence.

My chest continues to burn. We sit in this lightly smoke-scented room for a quiet moment before there’s a bang at the door. Someone yelps in pain, someone else snarls, and then Baelfire is shoved into the room before the door slams shut again.

And it’s actually Baelfire.

His pupils are round as he adjusts to sit on the floor. Thick silver shackles immobilize his wrists and ankles. The collar I put on him is still there, as is the leash. His face is bruised, one eye blackened, nose quickly healing from an obvious break, and his ripped shorts are stained with an alarming amount of blood. More is dried all over his beautiful bare muscles.

He’s also still holding the end of someone’s bitten-off finger in his mouth.

When he spots me, his face lights up just like it always used to. Spitting the finger he just snagged aside, he beams.

My pulse flutters. Gods—there he is.

My sunshine mate is no less charming, all covered in blood. He's as ridiculously handsome as ever, his eyes sparkling, his smile bright.

But I can sense it right away—the change in his demeanor.

When I first met Baelfire, back when I was trying to reject my matches, he was so upbeat and guileless and… good compared to the rest of us. In a way, he seemed innocent, or at least as innocent as legacies can be.

Now? It's subtle, but there's a new edge to him, and not the kind that comes from his dragon.

Baelfire shuffles across the room to my side. As soon as he’s close enough to me, he leans over to kiss my mouth through the tape.

“You okay, Raincloud? Gods, I was so fucking worried you wouldn’t wake up,” he rasps, kissing my jaw next.

He doesn't seem to remember there's someone else's blood on his face, but I'm so happy he's present that I'm not about to remind him. I’ve missed his singed cedar scent and those beautiful golden irises.

When Baelfire sees me drinking in the sight of him no longer feral and hissing, he looks sheepish. His broken nose has completely healed, and his bruises are starting to fade.

“My dragon is a godsdamned wimp. When anyone he considers a lesser being hurts us, and he can’t come out to roast them, it's a huge blow to his pride. Only took a few beatings for me to get him in the back seat. For now,” he adds with a slight grimace.

Beatings, constraints, my fae locked in isolation somewhere…

It’s decided. I’ll relish all the elite legacies’ screams and pleas for mercy as I punish them for harming my quintet.

But for now, I’m ready to get this tape off my face. Leaning toward Baelfire, I lift my chin.

He immediately kisses my cheek, nuzzling my neck with a ragged sigh of relief. More flutters make me flush all over. His obvious excitement to be with me even in a situation like this is just…admittedly adorable.

I reluctantly pull away. Making sure Baelfire sees my purposeful expression, I tilt my face until he focuses on the tape.

“Oh, shit. Right. Hold still for me, baby.”

It’s quite the process, him nipping and pulling gently at the tape over my mouth. When it starts to peel away, my dragon shifter kisses each part of my face that’s been uncovered.

When the tape finally falls away, I smile against his lips. “Good boy.”

I'm not expecting the rough whimper that escapes him at those words, but oh my gods, it's hotter than I could have imagined.

Baelfire’s warm lips are immediately moving against mine. His tongue drags against the seam of my lips until I open for him, and he growls as our mouths mingle.

He quickly gets more aggressive, tugging lightly on my upper lip before kissing down my neck, nipping it now and then. My head is spinning. When he gets to the mating mark he left on me, he groans.

“Hell yes. Right where it’s always going to fucking be.”

I can’t help the exhilarated gasp that escapes when he roughly bites and then licks the scar to soothe it.

Everett swears under the bag on his head. “I’m missing something I want to see, aren’t I?”

“Quite the little show,” Crypt agrees, grinning.

When Baelfire adjusts to kiss the other side of my neck, I can feel his collar against me.

“Sorry about the collar,” I manage.

He pulls back, raising his brows. “Hang on. You mean, they didn't put it on me? This was you?”

I nod and apologize again, but he groans and lets his head fall back on his shoulders.

“Damn, that makes me so hard.”

Crypt's voice is strained. “Speaking of, they didn't leave any room for viewing pleasure in this fucking sarcophagus. So if you don't mind…”

I realize he's grimacing down at the bronze encasing him, too affected by our little make-out session. Everett hasn't said anything else, but he's tenting.

Oops. My poor voyeurs, minus one.

Finally being in a room with three of my matches coherent and conscious is amazing, but it makes Silas’s absence painfully obvious. My empty stomach clenches painfully at the thought of what they might be doing to my necromancer.

“Don't be sorry, Maven. I’m sorry. So fucking sorry,” Baelfire whispers, leaning his forehead against mine. “I don't remember everything from that night my dragon took you, but I—fucking gods, I dropped you.”

“I stabbed you.”

“So? I fucking dropped you and?—”

I nip his lower lip to stop him from finishing that guilt-ridden statement before peering into his golden irises. “Who cares? That’s nothing when we almost lost each other.”

His molten gaze grows so uncharacteristically sorrowful and broken that it makes my chest twinge as he shakes his head, swallowing hard.

“Not right now. I can’t talk about losing each other right now. Please. Because if I start to think about what happened six months ago, I—fuck, I can’t ,” he rasps, shutting his eyes and shifting to rest the back of his head against the wall. He breathes in and out at a measured pace, trying to calm himself down. “Distract me with something. Anything. Please.”

I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “I was in Paradise. Not that I remember much of it yet.”

He peeks one eye open. “Everett mentioned that.”

“Syntyche is my mother.”

“Yeah. He mentioned that, too.”

Realizing that Baelfire knows what I am and is treating me exactly the same as before is such a relief that I beam at him.

His face lights up again, attention pinned to my mouth. “Holy fuck, I’ve missed that.”

“Missed what?” Everett demands from the bed.

“None of your business, Popsicle Prick.” Baelfire boops my nose with his. “When we get out of this Frosty shithole, I’m going to need a lot more of those from you, my cute little demigoddess.”

I fix him with a firm look even as I try not to smile. “Not cute. I see ghosts and reap souls. I’m the daughter of Death.”

“Sure, and you’re also so . Fucking . Cute. I bet you look like a queen while you’re reaping. My queen.”

He kisses the tip of my nose, trailing more light kisses up and down my neck.

Gods, I’ve missed him and his persistent flirtiness.

But wait…

I tense, straightening as much as I can in this stupid, chained-up straitjacket. “Fuck. Where’s my scythe?”

“Confiscated along with anything else they found on our person,” Crypt says. His markings light up again, and he hisses in pain. “They took my lighter, too, and would have taken Decimus’s self-discipline, if he had any left.” He gives the shifter a pointed look. “Our girl is still exhausted. Give her space before your touch starts to bother her.”

Baelfire pouts, but still hasn’t moved away. “Is this bothering you yet, Mayflower?”

I want to tell him I’m more than fine with the touching—in fact, I’m craving anything I can get from my matches, after all that time I spent agonizing over whether they were still alive.

But before I can speak, the door to this suite opens and three people walk in. Two of them are legacies in fitted suits, and the third is a woman dressed impeccably well with a camera hanging from her neck.

Before I can register the fact that strangers have barged in, the woman snaps a picture of Baelfire’s face pressed against my neck and my startled expression.

“Ah, good. The tape’s already off. Maven Oakley,” one of the suited men greets stiffly as he gestures at the big desk in the room surrounded by four chairs. “It’s time for your pre-trial interview.”