Page 32 of Malicent (Seven Devils #1)

Cage

I GROAN AS THE MENTAL alarm rips through my skull, tearing me from sleep. I’m still exhausted, spent from being up all night and half the day. Most of it, if I’m honest, stems from whatever happened in Millicent’s mind.

Now this?

I curse aloud, shoving the blanket off my legs and sitting up. The wards on Millicent’s room are flaring like mad. Lovely. She’s up to something again. Does the wretched thing not sleep?

I don’t bother changing; rather, I stomp into the hall wearing the same loose trousers I wore to bed. I sleep too hot for shirts anyway. Grumbling, I make my way toward her door.

When I arrive, I don’t bother knocking before I push it open and walk in unannounced.

“Fuck,” I groan.

Her magic is in full swing as chaos unfolds before me. Shadow imps bounce wildly across the room, tearing into anything they can get their claws on. Millicent is in bed, either dead asleep or pretending to be.

“Hey, witch.” I stride toward her, swatting an imp out of the air as it tries to nip at my ear.

I shake her shoulders. Her brows pinch, and her breathing finally gives it away, shallow and erratic. Sweat glistens on her brow.

So, a nightmare, then.

With a sigh, I drop carelessly onto the edge of her bed. The mattress dips, causing her body to shift slightly.

“Witch. Up,” I bark, louder than necessary. “Your magic’s causing a shit show.”

The nearby imps scatter like startled butterflies, tumbling through the air in frantic swarms.

She doesn’t move.

I lean over her, my irritation simmering hotter.

Gods alive, I just want to be asleep right now—not coming to tuck this devil in.

With a growl, I slip my hand behind her neck, fingers threading into the thick curls at her nape.

I try to pull her upright. Her body slumps, limp and unresponsive like a discarded puppet.

Still nothing.

My hand drifts upward, cupping her cheek. Her skin is incredibly soft—too soft. It’s the kind of softness that whispers danger. Maybe she does bathe in blood. I honestly wouldn’t put it past her.

She’s not scowling at me, spitting venom, or snapping some smart-ass remarks. For once, her face is quiet, almost…innocent. It’s strange how pretty something looks when it’s not baring its teeth.

My thumb brushes the curve of her jaw, trailing across her petal-soft lips.

A hunger—dark and sharp—rises from the part of myself I rarely unleash, which used to rule over me in the past. That other half sees her now, this threat made vulnerable.

And it wants it.

My hand tightens reflexively in her hair.

My voice drops, rough with something I don’t name. “Millicent,” I whisper, tapping her cheek. “I’ll come in there and pull you out. Not even dreams can keep you from me.”

Her nose twitches.

Then her eyes snap open—wide, wild, and filled with pure terror.

She screams. The sound is so loud and raw, it pierces my skull, sharp enough to make me flinch.

“Shit,” I mutter, clapping my hand over her mouth to muffle the sound. “Hey, it’s me. It’s Cage.”

My thumb at the back of her neck shifts, offering small, steady strokes, meant to comfort her—anything to stifle the banshee wail echoing through my skull.

Her eyes stay locked on mine, and I can’t look away from those deep, endless oceans.

She wears that damn mask, hiding behind sarcasm and scorn.

Now I see it all: panic and fear. For once, nothing is hidden.

Raw emotion flickers across her features, each one more revealing than the last. It only stirs the urge in me to see every emotion I could extract from her—experience how her tears taste, how her laugh sounds.

Then, the fire returns. The inferno I’ve grown accustomed to—the one that usually comes with insults or blades—is back.

Her hands shoot up, shoving mine away. “What the fuck! Why are you in my room?” she snaps, her voice sharp enough to cut steel. It’s not really a question. She’s demanding an explanation, as if I need one.

I roll my eyes. “Can you not scream? I can hear you just fine, thanks.”

I gesture lazily to an imp dangling from her curtain rod. Its tiny claws dig into the fabric like it owns the place. “Is this a habit of yours when you sleep? Summoning chaos? Let me guess: a nightmare where you’re forced to live among the mortals? Sorry…vermin, right?”

I sigh heavily, long and theatrical.

Her eyes narrow and glow. Suddenly, the room shifts. The imps all stop. One by one, they turn. Their beady eyes fix on me. Then they leap with claws bared, teeth exposed. Shadows snarl through the air as they vault from the walls and furniture like rabid beasts.

“Seriously?”

I’m too goddamn tired for one of her little temper tantrums.

I raise my hand, palm up, fingers unfurling slow and deliberately—just so she can see what’s coming.

The imps close in, but before they can reach me, my hand slips from the back of her neck…to her throat.

My fingers wrap fully around it—the column of her neck bared and delicate beneath my palm. She doesn’t flinch. Of course she doesn’t. The mask is back in place.

“Do you like these little imps?” I murmur, voice low, dangerous. A smirk pulls at the corner of my lips. “I know you care. You pretend you don’t, but you do. They’re yours, just like that cursed familiar of yours.”

My magic stirs.

I reach, feeling along the threads of shadow that animate her imps. They pulse with her essence—a part of her in every one.

The first Imp lunges at me, teeth bared and ready to sink into my shoulder. I close my hand, and they freeze all at once.

Then the shrieking starts: high, sharp cries that echo off the walls as I twist their insides. They drop, convulsing midair, and their small forms writhe as if torn from the inside out.

Millicent’s eyes flick to the closest one, crumpled on the bed. It gasps, barely alive and twitching.

She winces.

“Stop,” she demands, her voice sharper now.

“Your wish is my command.” My voice is dipped in venom.

My magic surges. A pulse of energy ripples from my hand, and every imp disintegrates in unison. Their bodies collapse into murky shadows, snuffed out of existence until nothing remains.

Gone.

The room stills.

The shadows obey me just as easily as they obey her—something she seems to forget far too often.

“As satisfying as that was,” I continue, a slow smirk spreading, “I’m exhausted. And I’d rather not spend the night cleaning up after your emotional mess. So, try keeping magic in check, yeah?”

“You willingly came into my room just to clean up my mess?” she snaps, throwing my own words back at me.

I laugh dryly. “Believe me, I don’t want to be in here. It’s my job to keep things in order.”

I yank my hand from her neck. The sudden absence sends her tumbling backward onto the bed.

I stand.

“I would rather swallow glass than ever be in your room—or your bed—outside of duty.”

I move to the door and twist the handle. Locked.

I glance back. She’s sitting upright now, her fists clenched in the blanket. Her posture is coiled like a blade ready to strike.

“You hate that I’m greater than you,” she seethes. “You’re a murderer, Cage. Just like me. Your blood may be arcane, your power sharp, but I’ve never killed without a purpose. I never butchered so many that a coven barely survived. Your hunger? Your destruction? It’s worse than mine ever was.”

She laughs, sharp and cruel, and the sound cuts through the tension like shattered glass.

Anyone can justify their sins. She just wrapped hers in pretty words. Her so-called morality is nothing more than a painted excuse.

Still, her accusation lands, causing me to pause for a split second.

“The villages you’ve pillaged—ripping people from their homes? The abusive cycle you feed within your coven—on the women you call sisters?” I snarl. “I pray to never have a family like yours.

I let the silence stretch, just long enough to sting.

“But you don’t really have any family left, do you, Millie?”

She tilts her chin, regal and unyielding. Defiant.

“No,” she breathes. “You made sure of that. Even for yourself, am I right?”

Her smile is slow—too knowing. And when it lands, it lands hard.

My jaw clenches, and my grip on the doorknob tightens until my knuckles go stark white. Blood stops pumping; my hand tingles.

She’s not wrong. I ended up in that coven because I obliterated everything that tied me to another life. My magic was volatile, raw, and unchecked. And I was young.

I still remember the moment it happened: obsidian spikes rising from the ground with the snap of my fear; and my mother impaled, gasping for the breath she couldn’t catch. Even dying, she told me it wasn’t my fault.

Five days.

Five days of my mother’s cold skin against mine.

Five days of intimate education on how the smell of a human body changes as it decomposes.

I remained curled between their bodies for five days, my mother and father lifeless beside me. I didn’t eat. I barely breathed. Every breath I took was drenched in the putrid rot of them mixed with the piss and shit their bodies expelled.

Every breath I took felt stolen, unearned. I was alive, but they were dead.

Because of me.

Then Nora found me.

She promised safety and to help me control the storm growing inside me. I believed her. Gods, I wanted to believe her.

She trained me, molded me. She said it was for my own good and that the chains were necessary.

And for a while, I believed it—that is, until the night my magic turned against her.

Until Vyraxis.

Only then did I escape, and only then did I realize it had all been a lie. I wasn’t trained. I was controlled and abused. I was used .

Millicent? She’s still in it, still drowning in that same indoctrination.

I doubt she’s ever left the coven walls long enough to know who she’s without Nora’s voice whispering in her ear.

“Guilty as charged.” I turn toward her, raising both hands as I lean back against the door. “Tell me, Millicent: have you ever actually left your coven?”

“Of course I have,” she snaps—too quickly, too sharp.

I grin, cruel and tired. “You are a shit liar. If you ever did make it past those trees, you’d know the world isn’t what you’ve been told.”

Her eyes narrow. “You speak like a deserter. Weakness has tainted your mind.”

She lifts her chin, reciting her words like a sermon: “In this world, you are either a sheep or a wolf. And here you are: clustered with your little herd of sheep. It’s fitting for someone as low as you.”

That old lesson.

I know it well. Nora preached it during our special sessions, always as the blade slid in.

Suddenly, I want to know if Millicent's back bears the same scars as mine.

“I know the price to be a wolf,” I say, quieter now. “And I’m happy to be a sheep.”

That hits hard.

Her expression cracks just slightly, her mask slipping as the words find their mark.

“Did you become a wolf, Mille?” I press, stepping closer. “First of your kind?”

She opens her mouth. Then, she closes it again.

She knows what I’m quoting. She hears it.

“Rare, right?” I murmur. “I was too.”

I pause to allow the words to sink in.

“I wonder,” I add, “if she would’ve ever looked at you if I’d stayed.”

The silence between us goes razor sharp.

I’ve had enough.

I twist the doorknob and yank. With a mere thought, the ward cast on the room fractures whatever spell she threw up to keep me in. Nice try.

She’s strong—no doubt—but she still hasn’t shown me her teeth. The only one she obeys is Nora, which means some deal must’ve been struck—one that keeps her claws sheathed…for now.

I step out and slam the door behind me. With one final mental flick, my ward pulses, confirming it’s still intact.

And then I’m finally free to go to bed. I trudge back to my room, too exhausted for any further bullshit from her. I could have stayed and argued. I could have asserted myself over her again, but she is not worth the time or energy.

Thanks to her, I know sleep will not be easy tonight, not that it ever really is.

I know that my parents will be in my dreams tonight.

And the smell of decaying flesh.