Page 42 of Malicent (Seven Devils #1)
Millicent
THE NEXT TWO WEEKS PASS uneventfully, outside of Felix insisting I share some of my meals with him. He never mentions what happened at the coven, and for that, I’m thankful.
It turns out Felix and Ollie get along far too well. I sometimes forget Ollie’s emotions are tied to mine and that his reactions—his likes and dislikes—often mirror the things I won’t admit to myself.
Kalix and Cage are in and out of the palace grounds, hunting for any wandering manipulator witches to question.
Meanwhile, I remain in the lab, assisting Iris.
We add to the journal, notating that the curse seems to be capable of tearing down mental shields on contact. We hypothesize this makes a body more compliant—more vulnerable to whatever infection or possession it invites in.
The anxious energy that’s become part of me finds some outlet here in Iris’s lab.
She is growing on me, more than I expected. Often, she makes me miss Arcadia. I should write to her. I think she’d actually enjoy the castle and the people here.
People.
It’s strange to admit: Kalix and Felix have grown on me too. Iris is brilliant, and her marks prove her strength. I would have once thought her weak for liking humans. Now, I’m not so sure.
Maybe it’s not weakness to change. Maybe it’s a strength to feel—to care. That thought is fleeting, chased away by the sudden brush of a cool hand over the back of my neck.
The Nightmother.
Her presence is exceptionally strong today, unmistakable. The full moon.
It’s a reminder that a sacrifice must be made. I finish up in the lab, but my hands are clumsy, and my mind is elsewhere.
A beaker shatters, and Iris waves me off, dismissing me with a worried frown.
As sunset bleeds across the sky, my awareness only worsens, my sole focus on her and the steps I must complete tonight.
The night approaches. And the Nightmother is waiting.
I FOLLOW THE LIGHT OF the full moon through the dense brush guided by instinct alone.
The siren call hums in the air around me, my name whispered in a dozen overlapping tones.
“Come,” it whispers, distant and echoing, as if carried on the wind from every direction
Multiple voices. All hers—all hers.
My legs move without thought, drawn forward by something deeper than will.
No creatures dare cross my path tonight; my presence reeks of her with every talon that claws into my mind.
Eventually, I arrive—always inevitably—at a lake. The full moon hovers above, casting a perfect twin onto the water’s surface.
The soft glow ripples across the dark waves, mixing its beauty with something more menacing.
“Come” she beckons again.
I don’t hesitate. I know what to do. I have done it year after year.
On the full moons, she demands worship.
Prayers.
Offerings.
You’re expected to give a piece of yourself, surrendered to the depths, and you will be rewarded with her blessing.
I sink to my knees, the white linen gown pooling around me like moonlight. She likes the white; I’ve learned this.
It shows the blood better—reveals every flaw and every weakness.
Even the buds of my breasts are visible through the sheer fabric barely clinging to me via the delicate tie at my chest. I bare myself because that is what she demands. My arms are exposed, my shoulders bare. I hold out my hand, summoning her magic.
It rises as something familiar but markedly stronger than mine. Tendrils of silver streak through the pool of inky black that swirls in my palm.
They sharpen, forming the sharp edge of a dagger. The hilt is carved bone. The blade glows red and settles in my hand with a chilling ease.
I reach for the tie between my breasts, ready to begin when I hear her.
Not just around me now. Behind me.
“He comes,” she whispers.
My brows knit together in confusion until I feel it.
Him.
I move quickly, slipping the dagger beneath the folds of my gown, hiding it behind my thigh.
Then I whip around, my eyes scanning the darkness beyond the trees. He’s there, lurking in the shadows and avoiding the moonlight.
“Your obsession with me is tiresome,” I call, my voice flat and unbothered.
A low, dark chuckle snakes out from beneath the trees. Then he steps into view. Those silver eyes are the same ones that haunt my nightmares.
He is clad in nothing but a plain black tunic and loose trousers. His boots are barely laced, and his hair is a mess.
He must have been in bed, yet he came here.
“What are you doing in the woods, little witch?” he taunts. “Hungry beasts lurk out here.”
“I don’t recall needing to tell you my every move,” I snap, letting him feel the words laced with steel.
His gaze drifts over me—lingering, assessing—trying to put pieces together in his mind.
He is yet to understand what he’s walked into.
The Nightmother purrs against my mind, her hunger deepening, drawn to the storm inside him. I salivate for the power in his blood and thrum with desire.
This kind of hunger does not make requests.
It takes.
Give him to me, little star.
Her voice is soft—almost tender—but the command strikes like iron. The blade heats against my thigh in response, pulsing like a second heartbeat.
It wants blood. His blood.
I can’t kill him .
Nora’s rage would burn the world.
A soft chuckle curls in my mind, silken but sharp.
Bind him, little star. His power can be ours.
And I realize she’s correct. Blood magic is powerful, and I can do it, but I need him closer.
The thought of Cage beneath me—bound, his power mine to drain, his obedience absolute—sends a rush through me.
My heart skips. I force my face to communicate neutrality, taking the hunger with cold indifference.
I picture him kneeling, his will mine. He is my dog on a leash, rolling over at my beck and call. He tilts his head.
And then I feel him—his magic—gliding along the edge of my mental wall.
Like a raven’s wing, its feathers brush over like the curious creature he is.
My barrier holds. I think of iron, unbreakable.
Not tonight.
I want to snap at him again, push him back, but I need him closer. So, instead, I offer him a sweet smile.
“You know,” I say lightly, “You could just ask a girl how she feels. It’s called communicating.”
A sly grin tugs at his lips. “I find people to be rarely honest, and when they try to be, they are not even truly honest with themselves.”
He says this smoothly, taking a step closer.
“Ask me, then,” I challenge, folding my hands together and turning fully to face him. “Give it your best shot.”
His gaze drops—to my neck and then lower—and I see the flicker of tension in his jaw.
He forces his eyes back to mine, keeping his face blank, but something still lingers there. Perhaps it’s hunger.
“How old were you,” he asks softly, “when she first spoke to you?”
The surprise must flash across my face because his damn grin blooms wider—almost smug—revealing a dimple I have never seen.
“And don’t play coy,” he tacks on smoothly. “You know of whom I speak: the one who summoned you here tonight…who calls to me every full moon.”
He crosses his arms, the fabric of his tunic stretching tightly over his chest and shoulders.
He knows. At the very least, he suspects more than he should.
“I was fifteen,” I lie but too quickly.
His eyes narrow just a fraction.
He doesn’t call me on it, but I see the skepticism…the knowing.
Instead, he walks forward and then crouches. Resting his forearms on his thighs, he settles in front of me. I hate the way I have to tilt my chin up to meet his eyes.
“Mmhmm. Yeah.” he hums, as if I’m a child spinning bedtime stories.
“What does she require of you?” he asks a bit too casually. It feels like an interrogation wrapped in silk.
My irritation flares, but I stamp it down. I need him closer.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” I murmur, coating my voice in velvet. I let the charm bloom—let it drip.
His gaze sharpens, locking onto me. The forest, the moonlight, the beasts he warned me of—all vanish.
“I’d like to know,” he replies, his voice dropping a register, now a quiet murmur between us. The space is suddenly… intimate . “How she likes to be worshiped.”
He slides to his knees so that he’s only inches away now, but while I kneel back on my heels, he stays upright, looking down on me. “How?”
“Devotion looks different for everyone,” I answer quickly, trying to ignore the smoky, oaken scent that clings to him. Uniquely his.
He studies me. “You kneel here, alone in a thin gown,” he says slowly. “Must one be beneath her…and laid bare?”
His eyes smolder, tracing my body like scripture.
I simply nod, but I’m unraveling inside.
The Nightmother’s command presses in. I feel my hatred simmering.
However, he makes me feel something else, but I can’t quite place it.
I do loathe you , I remind myself.
He reaches out. His fingers trail lazily up my arms, tracing over the swirls and dips of my markings.
Goosebumps rise in waves over my flesh. Still, I don’t look away.
I won’t.
“Tell me how to worship her, my little witch,” he whispers.
His voice is husky and low, nearly desperate.
And, suddenly…I know.
He isn’t talking about the Nightmother. He’s talking about me.
His fingers slide to the straps resting on my shoulders. Slowly, deliberately, he hooks them, slowly pulling them down, inch by inch.
The fabric slips, and cold air kisses my skin. My breasts are bare beneath the moonlight. Exposed and pale, my nipples are tight from the chill.
His eyes drop, and he bites his lower lip. The hunter there isn’t masked anymore.
I tell myself I’m allowing this because I need him closer. Because I need to bind him.
His fingers are soft as they ghost along my shoulders, tracing my clavicles.
Then, lower…
His palm cups the weight of my breast, thumb brushing over the peak of my nipples until a sharp pull coils deep within my gut. My breath stutters as my pulse pounds faster.
“I could be the most devoted worshiper,” he murmurs, “to something so divine.”
His voice is like a hymn, low and reverent.
“Maybe I’ll be condemned.”
He grins devilishly.
“Maybe I already am.”