Page 15 of Horns of Wicked Ebony (Deathcaller Duet #2)

D ragging the chair to the table felt like hauling an executioner’s block into place, a grim prelude to the conversation long overdue.

Assyria sat across from me, those devious burgundy eyes I’d fallen helplessly in love with studying me with an emotion I’d scarcely ever welcomed—concern.

Yet from her, from my mate…I’d take it all.

The wood creaked as I settled into it, thumping a cup and the metal flask against the smooth top of the table. Fuck, this conversation wasn’t going to be easy. Centuries of repressed feelings didn’t merely want to claw up my throat and out of my mouth, even to my mate.

That was where the scale came in. The amber liquid splashed as I poured myself a double dose. I wasted no time throwing it back. The spicy alcohol burned all the way to my stomach before settling there. Not that the organ itself was settled; no, it churned like an angry sea.

Grem sidled up to me and plopped his head in my lap, looking up at me with his piercing red eyes.

I pet his soft black fur, letting it ground me along with the scale.

Assyria reached across the table and squeezed my forearm.

Her small fingers brushed over a tattoo of thorns and roses wrapped around a skull, and then she retreated.

Since returning, we’d changed clothes—her, to one of my tunics that swam to her knees, me to a loose pair of pants I’d swiped from Rapp. The rest of our belongings were lost to the camp we abandoned.

I’ll hire a clothier when we arrive in Fured to craft us both proper attire again.

Assyria pointedly cleared her throat, drawing my attention away from my thoughts. “You can procrastinate all you want, but you will tell me.” Her tone was firm, yet gentle.

I exhaled, counting to ten and focusing on the feel of my chest deflating.

Almost unconsciously, I rubbed my pectorals right over my heart.

Grem didn’t move from his position as I poured myself another drink.

As I tipped it back, Assyria commented, “That stuff is disgusting. I don’t know how you drink it. ”

The glass smacked against the table as I set it down again. “And how would you know, little imposter?”

She snorted and rolled her eyes. “I drank that bottle you had hidden away in your room at Gyor Palace.”

“Of course you did,” I grumbled, swishing the flask. It was almost empty; not nearly enough to get me through the next hour or so of my life. It would take time to tell her everything, for there was so much, and honestly, I didn’t know where to begin.

Her hand once again closed the gap between us. “Just start talking. Whatever comes to mind first. No need to remember what I do and don’t know. Honestly, I could use a refresher anyway.”

Not meeting her piercing gaze, I traced the rim of the cup.

“My father was the brother of the last Kral. The middle brother at that. He always felt forgotten, like he didn’t have a place in the world.

He took his perceived shortcomings out on me.

Not that either of his brothers were any less cruel. ”

“What about your mother?” she asked after a moment of pause from me.

“Died giving birth to me,” I muttered. I never knew her, and my father didn’t speak much of her.

Nor did he ever remarry. For the longest time, I couldn’t decide if it was because he loved her so much or because he hated her.

That had been a constant theme in my life: the contrast between hate and love, two sides of the same emotion.

For one could not exist without the other.

The depths of my feelings for Assyria were a testament to that.

“I’m so sorry, Rokath,” she murmured, squeezing tighter.

Finally, I met her gaze. “That is nothing compared to what happened in my youth.”

Assyria’s burgundy eyes shone, and she nodded, a silent understanding.

I looked at the ceiling, trying to find the words to tell her exactly how much of an asshole my father was. What he made me do.

“Xannirin and I went to Fured, to the military academy, young. The former Kral was harsh with Xannirin too. I always tried to protect him from the worst of it. At least at the academy, I thought we might have a modicum of freedom.”

With a sigh, I shook my head. “I was wrong.”

A chill settled over me like the fog that rolled off the coast in the early mornings.

The sensation and memory were enough to paint vivid images of my wrongdoings in my mind.

“The Kral and my father made frequent visits to Fured to check on us. My father more often, though. He was harder on me than any of the drilling trainers. All of whom bowed to him and allowed him free reign while he was in residence. He wanted me to rise the ranks in the army, to become someone important since he was nothing. When I’d fuck up, he’d take me into his quarters and beat me. Break my ribs, my nose, my fingers.”

Assyria sucked in a sharp breath. She’d spoken of her husband—the one she’d killed and impersonated until the moment our mate bond snapped in place—and the horrors he’d inflicted.

Those words had flayed me open during our first meeting, triggering a visceral response.

One that wasn’t solely because she was my mate.

Those protective instincts flared, yes, but so too did my own trauma.

For centuries, I’d been running from the memories that haunted my dreams. I’d forged myself into the Halálhívó, the cold, merciless, feared leader of the Demon army, because I could protect others better than I’d protected myself.

I’d donned a mask to hide myself from the world too after Xannirin, Kiira, and I decided that we would become Fates that walked the earth.

To hear Assyria speak of similar abuse cracked that facade in an instant. Wrenched my carefully crafted helmet right off my head. Exposed me to myself.

My mate leaned over the table, a tear spilling down her cheek. With the lightest of touches, she brushed the bump on my nose. “They don’t heal properly if they’re not set right away,” I told her. “I gave up trying after a while.”

“And your fingers?” she asked softly.

“I always told the healers that I smashed them into things,” I shrugged. “Those were important for wielding a sword.”

“And that’s why you tolerated the pain of the stakes so well,” she said, removing the empty glass from my hand and placing hers in it instead.

She traced the white scar on my palm, then the A she carved into my wrist—the brand she’d given me to match the one I’d given her.

That shared claim upon one another’s souls, more visible than the perfect circles resting between our shoulder blades .

The touch was soothing, and I basked in the comfort she offered me. So rarely had I indulged in this delicacy, thinking I was undeserving of it. That it was safer for everyone if I remained aloof.

Right then, Assyria was offering me a different type of safety.

One I desperately wanted to lean into, yet I wasn’t sure how to surrender entirely.

“He visited one time shortly before I came of age, and from the moment he exited the carriage, I knew it was going to be the worst visit yet. When the Kral arrived a few days later, Xannirin and I were already on edge. My father wanted to show off my powers for his brother. How well I’d learned to harness them. ”

“What did he make you do?” Assyria asked, rubbing my fingers now as if she could ease the hurt from them, centuries later.

“A three on one fight, where I had to call upon the dead ones and use them to slaughter the others. I didn’t have nearly as much control over my power then as I do now,” I explained.

Now, I could wield hundreds of bodies simultaneously.

I’d raised several thousand at one point, but my magic tapped out too quickly at that scale.

The number I chose at any given point in time was based on centuries of experience.

The past decade had honed it even more than the years of my father’s abuse.

“He made you kill three other Demon soldiers?” she clarified, sorrow threading her tone.

“Aye. Afterward, he called me to his room. To beat me, though for what, I wasn’t sure.

I’d executed every move perfectly. But I’d had enough.

He closed the door.” I paused, jaw clenching as the memory surfaced, clear as the sky above the Paks Desert.

“And then, I ensured he was too afraid to lay a hand on me ever again.”

Assyria hummed a sympathetic noise, letting me know she was listening .

I retracted my hand so I could pour the last of the scale into my glass. The next piece of information would be the most difficult to discuss. Fates, I didn’t even talk to Rapp and Xannirin about Thast, and they were both there .

Assyria watched me, still poised on the edge of her seat, ready to reach out and comfort me on a moment’s notice.

“He found another way to punish me after I really failed.” I tossed back the alcohol, relishing the burn in my throat. Then, I rolled tension from my shoulders. My stomach clenched, and my palms sweated.

Would Assyria look at me differently after I revealed my greatest failure? My greatest shame?

“I’m sure it wasn’t that bad–” she started, but I cut her off with a shake of my head.

“Place,” I told Grem, and with a huff, he trotted to his bed on the opposite side of the tent.

After a few turns, he curled up beside Zeec.

I faced Assyria and splayed my arms across the table.

I needed her grounding presence for this.

She understood my silent request and slipped her warm skin against mine.

Dropping my head, I failed to steady my racing heart. She deserved to know everything, the whole truth. Yet I hadn’t spoken about the events since…ever. Rapp and Xannirin had both attempted to bring it up on multiple occasions, and I’d silenced them every time.