Page 15 of Malicent (Seven Devils #1)

Millicent

THE DAYS PASS, BORING AND repetitive. Nothing entertaining happens, so I make use of the time mapping my surroundings and learning the movements and routines of those within. I feel more in control when I know where everyone is, what they do, and when they do it.

Cage, surprisingly, isn’t as ever-present as I expected.

Despite his claims of “supervision,” he keeps to himself.

His routine mirrors Kalix’s, with meetings, training, and more training.

The only difference is that Cage operates in a warded wing, a fortress to keep intruders out.

Mages slip in and out, drawing runes upon the door to pass through the barrier.

I can’t help but linger nearby. Are the artifacts Nora desires hidden in those very halls?

Breaking wards tends to alert the owner unless they have a massive number running and several are disrupted, are inebriated, or are consumed in battle. Simply entering it only alerts them if the ward only allows certain people entry. Too many enter this one for it to be selective.

Right, left, half square.

Years of doing this procedure have made the mages not guard their process with their bodies, exposing the patterns they draw to me.

Iris, on the other hand, might as well be stitched to her lab. I’m half convinced she sleeps there. The fact that another witch is here—and willingly so—baffles me. At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised if she beds these mortals willingly.

How repulsive.

Sure, we witches always used mortal men for breeding, but we tend to kill them after. Eating the liver blesses the baby with good health, or so the tradition goes.

The cold stone beneath my fingertips grounds me. Its rough grooves leech the warmth from my skin. I savor the feeling, letting it anchor me as my thoughts spiral. The cold reminds me of dinner the other night, when Cage had the audacity to pry into my mind.

I wonder what he found: a frozen abyss? A void darker than even his own nightmares? My body may be warm, my appearance full of life, but I am something else entirely inside.

Yet, I am still confused. He didn’t even fight back.

He let me push him out. Why? A trick? A test?

I do not trust him; I never will. He plays with life and power like a child, teetering on a tightrope.

How long has he been this way? Since we were children?

Since before? I wish I had seen it sooner—if someone had—maybe he could have been stopped.

Maybe Mama would still be alive. Maybe my sisters wouldn’t have perished.

How many more has he killed? Cage seems to be doing great despite the blood on his hands.

He thrives while I hardly get to sleep, tormented by the nightmares he carved into me. My fingers curl, my nails scraping and ripping against the stone; I let the sharp sting ground me. I welcome it, feeding the rage simmering beneath my skin.

What is it like, I wonder, to grow up here after slaughtering those who took him in? To trade their blood for a silver spoon? To rise in a golden palace, first hand to the king, and be granted more power—more power he so clearly craved while mine was taken away.

So much has been taken from me, hollowing me out until I clawed at the void, desperate to be whole again.

The coven made me whole—no easy claim to power, no golden path to comfort.

The coven taught me the burn from flame forges an unbreakable blade, and suffering sharpens it; I have never been sharper.

Typical of a mage to seek such luxuries, to drown in softer pleasures while he calls himself strong.

I am not bitter, no. Comfort breeds weakness. I have stared into the abyss, endured its torment, and emerged anew. I am no lamb.

I am a wolf.

A slow, predatory smile curves my lips as my steps become firmer. When I can take what the North holds, blood will rain down on Cage, painting his skin as it did mine that night.

I will repeat history.

And I’ll make a damn show of it.

I nearly collide with the smug bastard as I round the corner quickly, blissfully unaware that I’ve wandered into the west wing, where the mages reside. Instinct kicks in. I recoil, my body demanding distance between us.

He isn’t wearing his usual long black coat.

Instead, a loose black tunic hangs from his frame.

Its deep neckline exposes the carved lines of a muscular chest and the black swirls of his markings creeping up his neck.

He smells of sweat and earth, his hair is damp and unruly.

His trousers sit low on his hips and hug his thighs.

The weight of his large black sword tugs them lower.

My gaze flickers to the dragon-carved handle and the embedded red jewel catching the dim light.

He crosses his arms, his shirt riding up to reveal a deep cut of muscle running down his waistline and a thick patch of hair following its descent.

“My eyes are up here, witch.” his voice is gruff, laced with amusement.

My eyes snapped to his face, “I was looking at your sword—the handle, specifically.”

His smirk widens. He’s far too pleased with himself. “Yeah, you sure were looking at my sword.” His tone was far too suggestive for my liking. He’s pouring fuel on the fire of my already festering rage.

The desire to carve that stupid smirk off his face is overwhelming. If he wants to look at me in such an insolent way, perhaps I should just make it a permanent look for him.

“I would sooner gouge out my own eyes before looking at the sword you’re so obviously proud of,” I say flatly, crossing my arms to mirror him.

Cage shrugs, completely unfazed. “Go for it.” He steps past me, deliberately keeping his distance as he disappears down the hall.

I welcome the distance. My control only goes so far, and my impulse to sink into his flesh and mar it grows with every footstep of his that echoes on stone.

My fury boils. The sconces lining the corridor flicker violently before snuffing out, plunging the hall into shadow.

The darkness twists, writing, spilling from the ceiling like ink. It moves with me, feeding off my anger, crawling down the walls like a swarm of spiders.

I take a sharp breath. Exhale.

Control.

The shadows retreat as I turn, forcing myself toward my room.

The night concludes as it always does. I remember the day to Nora’s eerie little owl.

The thing perches, unblinking, absorbing my every word.

This is the routine now. If Nora has a message, its beak will part, and her voice will slither through the silence, like a prophecy, reminding me of who truly pulls the strings.

Even once the lights extinguish in my room, the faint white eyeshine of the owl penetrates the dark.

Always watching me.