Page 88 of Eldritch (The Eating Woods #2)

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

ZEVANDER

Present …

S itting in a chair across from the bed, Zevander watched his moon witch as she slept. He’d cracked the drapes earlier, allowing the silvery bands of moonlight in just enough to illuminate her face in the dark.

His mate.

He pressed the heel of his palm into the freshly sealed wounds at his chest, sinking into the memory of watching her succumb to pleasure, her head thrown back in ecstasy, hair wild and damp, as she raked those claws across his skin, whispering his name like a prayer.

He’d torn across the world, had heard his cursed name in the dying pleas of men, the vicious roars of beasts, and the breathless moans of women, but not a single one had ever seared itself in his mind and flesh, had ever given it so much worth as when it’d been spoken by her.

He longed to tear the wounds open, to savor that raw, burning rapture all over again. To remind himself of the exact moment he’d surrendered his soul.

That she’d even imagine he’d dream of any other woman was laughable.

No one would ever nourish his starving, ruined heart the way she did.

He’d been trained by brutal hands to fuck a woman properly and expect nothing in return.

Being with her was the first time Zevander had known pleasure through the pain.

The first time someone had ever given without taking from him.

Maevyth. Her name stitched itself into the hollow of his chest, a suffocating chamber in his heart that only she could ever touch.

He loved her.

Gods, he loved her.

For a man who’d spent half his life shackled in chains, he could say with certainty that no other woman had ever made him feel so free.

So alive.

And that alone made her a danger, a threat to anyone who might try to take her from him.

His body hardened all over again, his cock straining against his leathers, hands curled to tight fists.

Clenching and flexing. The need to touch her bordered on violence, but as much as he wanted to slip back into that euphoric state, to relive that moment over and over again, he forced himself to push those thoughts aside.

He’d spent half the evening contemplating if he should journey alone to the mountains.

She’d be safe in the temple, a fortress compared to the small shacks and abandoned homes he’d seen in the mortal lands, and who knew what they’d encounter along the way.

As much as he loathed the annoying sky rat, Raivox would protect her.

And the truth was, she could protect herself. She was strong. Powerful, when she trusted herself.

Zevander had already dressed, resigned to leaving before she woke, and yet, he couldn’t stand the thought of it. Not even with the prospect of him becoming more and more of a threat to her without vivicantem.

She shifted in her sleep, the sheets slipping over the smooth curves of her body. “Zevander.” His name ghosted across her lips as a dreaming murmur and his chest tightened.

She was dreaming of him.

He pushed to his feet, crossed the room, and knelt beside the bed.

Her hair spilled across the pillow like a silken shadow, and he brushed back the few tendrils that’d fallen onto her face.

Her lips parted for the easy breaths that had her chest rising and falling like a gentle wave, and Zevander fought the urge to seize them, to devour her with a breathless kiss.

Godsblood, she was painfully exquisite.

He couldn’t recall a single vision in his life—sunrise, nor sunset; star shower, nor solstice—that’d roused the same awe he felt from just looking at her. She was the wild pulse in his veins. The steady anchor in his mind. An ungodly obsession he had neither the strength nor desire to resist.

A soft prickling brushed the back of his neck, and Zevander turned toward the door just as the knob rattled and shifted. He shot to his feet and summoned a cloud of smoke, vanishing himself in the dark room as the stranger stepped inside.

A blade led the way, as the intruder quietly tiptoed across the room, his eyes narrowed on Maevyth.

Eyes squeezed shut, Zevander pressed the heel of his palm to his temple, recalling the last time he’d thought someone had come for her while she slept.

Not real. He’s not real.

Except, a low growl from outside warned that Raivox had taken notice, although he hadn’t yet made himself known.

Zevander peeled out of his thoughts and resumed tracking the mortal, who edged closer to the bed.

A little over halfway there, the man paused and glanced around the room, unaware of how truly fucked he was.

A colossal form stepped into the window’s view, and the intruder’s spine snapped straight, his gaze slowly trailing upward toward the furious silver eyes stalking him.

Blade already drawn, Zevander slapped his hand over the man’s mouth, muffling a gasp.

Before he could scream, or speak a word and wake her, he leveled the blade at the stranger’s throat.

“He’s the least of your worries now,” Zevander whispered in his ear, before dragging him out of the room and down the corridor.

They reached the first level of the temple, and once out of earshot, Zevander released him.

The man dropped to his knees, hands clasped, as if his prayers had any power to save him. “Please. The others…they volunteered me.”

Zevander tipped his head, silently watching him.

How pathetic humans could be—powerless, yet so fucking bold at the same time.

He summoned a scorpion to the palm of his hand, watching the man’s eyes widen and his jaw tremble when it appeared.

He might’ve laughed at the sniveling creature who whimpered like an overgrown child, if not for the fact the stranger had snuck into his room with a blade.

“Please. I wasn’t going to…hurt her. I swear it.” Hands up, the man pushed to his feet and slowly backed away, but it didn’t matter what his intentions were.

In Zevander’s mind, he’d meant to kill Maevyth in her sleep. He marked his own death the moment he’d stepped inside that room.

With quick reflexes, Zevander captured him before he could run and pressed his palm to the stranger’s face again, allowing the scorpion to crawl inside his mouth.

The snake tattoo on the man’s neck almost seemed to writhe as the scorpion made its way down his throat.

His muffled screams vibrated over Zevander’s palm, while the scorpion tore through his organs, stinging him with the venom that liquified them.

Blood sputtered from his mouth in violent bursts, splashing across the floor.

Zevander quickly hoisted him up over his shoulder, listening to him gag and choke as he carried him down the stairwell to the undercroft. Halfway down the corridor, he heard a wet splash, and turned to see a trail of blood and organs spilled across the stones behind him.

He kept on through the winding path, until he could see the tomb and the flicker of torches clutched by the eager villagers, undoubtedly waiting to find out if their elected assassin had effectively carried out his duty.

Closer, Zevander strode toward the doorway he’d busted off its hinges earlier, a smirk pulling at his lips when the villagers backed away. Zevander threw the body across the space that separated them, and as it skidded to a stop just inside the tomb, screams echoed through the corridor.

One of the women darted forward, and he threw out his hand when she tried to skirt around him, his movements sharp and cold.

Aeryz hurled her backward into the tomb, where her body crashed onto the floor, knocking her unconscious.

Once inside, he scanned over the faces cowering from him.

Not a single child among them. If there had been, Zevander might’ve spared them from what was to come.

“From this night on, you will never harm her again.” The large scorpion at his back stirred and stepped from his flesh into a living creature.

A towering beast that sent them scattering for the alcoves in the wall.

Zevander raised both palms, and hundreds of scorpions materialized out of black smoke, scampering across the floor after them.

Horrific screams of pain echoed around him as he lifted one of the heavy iron doors, setting it back on its hinge.

While the large scorpion warded off anyone who tried to escape and the smaller ones carried out his killings, Zevander sent a flame over the hinges, soldering them to the door.

Bellows of pain and suffering filled the tomb, as he casually retrieved the other door and stepped outside of the tomb, shutting their cries for mercy on the other side.

After sealing it shut, he called his pets back to his palm and a black curling smoke seeped beneath the tiny crack at the bottom of the barrier he’d erected.

It crawled up the length of his arm and burrowed beneath his skin.

He made his way back toward the upper level but paused when he reached the corridor that housed the prison cells. Fingers of dread tickled his spine, and he strode toward that vault at the end of the adjacent passageway. Ear pressed to the massive iron door, he listened for any sound.

All was silent.

Zevander knocked, and the tolling echo was smothered by the frantic pounding on the other side of it.

“Let me out! Please! Zevander! If you’re there, let me out!”

The sound of Theron’s screams from inside the vault roused unbidden images that slipped in and out of his mind like the ghosts of the dead.

A heavy stone box. Enchantments etched into the ancient, black rock. His fingers sweeping over the symbols.

“Mor samanet.”

Stumbling backward, Zevander blew out a breath and shook his mind free of the visuals. He strode away, turning his thoughts back to Maevyth.

Maevyth .

The memory of the intruder, holding that knife stirred visuals of what he might’ve done with it.

The image of him cutting her throat while she slept chewed at his thoughts.

Eyes screwed shut, Zevander drowned them in a red haze of blood, recalling the sputtering cough of the man choking on his own organs. He wanted to kill him all over again.

His clenched fists sought more blood, more wrath, more screams.

Hands trembling, he reached into his pocket, tugging out the scorpion necklace, clutching it like a rope in a dark abyss.

He needed her. In his veins and in his blood.

Needed the calmness of her to settle the brutal appetite that roused his cursed flame.

Those softly spoken words that tempered him when he longed for a blade.

He took the stairs back to the temple’s upper level, where he entered the room to find Maevyth still peacefully sleeping.

Through the window, Raivox peered in on him, and for the first time, he didn’t sense a threat in the corvugon’s gaze as Zevander crossed the room toward her.

As if he understood what Zevander had done.

The assassin gave a short nod, and as he yanked his boots off, Raivox turned away, back to whatever roost he’d made for himself. He tugged his shirt off, keeping his eyes on her, and pushed his leathers to the floor, kicking them away.

She hardly stirred as he slid beneath the covers and pulled her close, desperate to feel her skin against his, to breathe in that sweet citrus scent. With blood on his hands, he held her to his body and pressed a kiss to her shoulder.

A selfless man would’ve slipped out of the castle and journeyed to the mountains alone, sparing her the darkest days he still faced.

Unfortunately for her, Zevander was the most selfish bastard there was.