Page 2 of Of Gods & Gold (A Conqueror’s Kingdom #2)

KYRIE

M y mother sits beside me, her red-gold hair shimmering with soft afternoon sunlight. Dust motes sparkle in the air beside her. The scent of yeast bread and lavender cling to her skin as her fingers slide across my cheek in a tender touch.

“Mama,” I try to say, but I can’t make the words come out.

My gaze dips to my chest—my own knife buried in it, driven in to the hilt. Sticky red blood soaks my chest, my shirt, the bed I’m in. It’s everywhere.

So much blood.

My mother looks at me with sad, sea-green eyes, and shakes her head at me. “Little bird, you have to live. You have to rise. You aren’t done yet. You have to soar, Kyrie.”

I don’t want to rise. I want to stay with my mother.

My fingers wrap around her wrist, but find no purchase.

The light grows stronger, her face more transparent, and then I’m alone, with a knife through my heart.

* * *

I gasp, sitting bolt upright, my heart hammering in my chest.

My heart. Hammering.

In my chest.

A fierce sweat breaks out on my forehead, my collarbones, and a moan rips out of me when I look down at myself. I steel myself for the same sight I saw in my dream, the blood, the hilt.

There is no knife.

A deep, shuddering breath wracks my chest, and gingerly, I press my fingertips to where the wound would be.

Where it should be.

It’s gone.

Disbelief and panic war inside me.

My fingers tremble on the loose knot on the shift I’m somehow wearing, and I carefully inspect the skin over my heart.

A small, star-shaped scar is the only sign of any damage. It’s healed completely, no jagged lines or angry scabs or fresh pink skin.

It’s white, and smooth, and looks like it’s been there for years.

He stabbed me.

“It was real,” I choke out, drawing my knees to my chest. My breaths come so quick and fast that I’m dizzy with it. “It was real.”

My mother at my bedside wasn’t real, though it seemed as real as this moment.

Hot tears replace her phantom touch on my cheeks.

No, she wasn’t here, but he was: the Sword. He took me in his arms, made me think he loved me, and he stabbed me through the heart.

Except he wasn’t the Sword—isn’t the Sword, was never just a simple Fae male warrior.

It was Hrakan, the god of death. He took me as his lover, then he killed me.

“ My wife ,” he’d said, a dark promise in the words.

My stomach twists, and I retch, the memory of the knife sliding through the soft barrier of my body all too real, all too fresh.

I retch again, and only bile comes out. I spit, clearing my mouth, panic peaking.

My heart continues to pound, my lungs continue to work, and my brain struggles to comprehend what the hells is happening.

How am I alive?

I wipe the back of my hand across my mouth, and the ring on my finger catches on my lips.

My eyes widen as I stare at it.

Sola’s Crown.

The ring we stole from Alaric, King of Diamonds, in Nyzbern… when? When was it? Two nights ago? More?

How long have I been… My brain stumbles over the word dead, refusing it.

I blink, staring down at the ring.

The unremarkable stone I remember is gone, the dull black now an iridescent, sparkling white. The metal is no longer tarnished, but a soft rose gold, leaves sprawling around the stone.

“It transformed, thanks to the ritual.”

I freeze.

The Sword— no, Hrakan , I remind myself—stands in a doorway, watching me with a closed-off, almost bored expression. His silver hair’s tucked up into a bun behind his head, a dark scruff along his jaw, purplish circles under his eyes.

Like he hasn’t slept in days.

Still, he’s beautiful, so lovely it hurts to look at him.

Or maybe that’s simply because the last time I saw him, he plunged a knife into my body. I squeeze my eyes shut, but that only makes it worse.

“Here,” he says, and a cool cloth slides over my face, my mouth. I turn away, sickened by his touch.

The memory slithers over me: a cave full of magic, full of statues of the gods, him telling me I had to be willing.

Willing .

“You killed me.” My heart feels like it’s pierced all over again, and I swallow against the urge to weep, my chest cracking wide open.

His touch on my face is gentle where he cleans up my sick, wordlessly changing the thick quilt out for another.

Normally, I’d be embarrassed to have someone clean up after me, to see me like this.

It’s his fault I threw up.

I force myself to look up at him, so fucking angry that I want to hurt him back, and terrified that he’ll hurt me again.

Something flits across his gaze, gone in an instant, his expression unchanged. Uncaring.

“Doesn’t seem like it stuck.” He retreats, leaning one shoulder against the door frame. He’s so broad his shoulders take up nearly all the empty space.

My hands shake, and I tuck them against my chest—the chest he stabbed—to keep him from seeing how terrified I am. How hurt.

But I want him to see my anger. I want him to know how much I hate him. My upper lip curls off my teeth.

“The ring’s not the only thing that transformed during the ritual,” he says slowly. If he’s noticed my snarl, he doesn’t act like it, as stoic as ever.

“What ritual?” My voice cracks on the word. “ You said I had to be willing. You told me it wouldn’t work if I wasn’t. And I wasn’t. I wasn’t willing to die. You stuck my dagger through my heart.”

Pain and longing flash across his eyes, or maybe that’s just a trick of the light because it’s gone before I can blink.

“And yet that death hasn’t stopped you from talking as much as always.” He raises a dark eyebrow at me, like he’s challenging me.

I have never hated anyone as much as I hate him.

“There’s that fire,” he says in a low voice.

“I wasn’t willing ,” I repeat, forcing my voice to stay even. Not to break in half like the rest of me.

“You were willing.” He stands up straight, stalking back over to the bed. “You were willing, or it wouldn’t have worked. You said you trusted me, and you said you were willing.”

I scowl at him, familiar, welcome anger starting to replace the terror and panic. “You never told me you were going to murder me.”

He leans forward, his gaze darting between my eyes, cold and fathomless as the North Sea.

I swallow hard.

“You never asked,” he says, and it’s sad.

“Fuck you,” I snarl, and all that hurt and terror solidify into pure rage. “You don’t get to be sad after you murdered me, you asshole.”

Sola’s Crown glows on my finger. My gaze drops to it, power thrumming inside me, different. More than… before.

“What did you do to me?” I glare at him, tucking my hair behind my ears.

My ears.

My eyes go wide, and I rub my fingers against the tips of my ears again. Not rounded. No, they’re… longer—they’re tipped into points.

“What did you do to me?” I ask again, my voice thick. “What did you mean, something else transformed?”

“Simple. I made you my wife. Forever.” He smiles at me, but there’s no humor in it, none at all.

I want to throw something at him. I want to rage. I want to beat him with my fists and scream.

I swallow hard. “What?”

“The curse could only be cured in one way. Your acceptance of your death, and your marriage to me.” His eyes flash. “That was the ritual, that was the cure you made me swear to give you. You were, have been, and now always will be, my fated mate. Welcome to my home, wife. I am sure it will be up to your very low, very human standards.” He turns from my bedside, and I throw the only thing I can at him.

My truth.

“I despise you,” I rasp. “I will hate you forever for taking my choice from me.”

He doesn’t stop, simply strides towards the door without another look at me.

Power builds through me, every inch of my body singing with it. “You are a coward, Hrakan. I don’t care if you are the god of death. I wouldn’t care if you were the god of everything. You weren’t brave enough to tell me what had to be done, and now that you’ve done it, you just walk away from the consequences.”

The words surge from my mouth, from my silver tongue, the taste of them full of power—but different, changed.

He turns slowly, and I witness the exact moment the words hit him. Hrakan flinches, pain passing through his stormy gaze.

Not the Sword. That man never existed.

“I brought the consequences home with me,” he snarls, hands fisting at his sides. “You are here, in my lands, and you are better than you were before. Improved. You are made new, by death, and still you say you despise me. You are everything I never wanted, everything I loathe, childishly selfish, full of deceit and hatred. But you are mine, Kyrie, and I am yours.”

My mouth drops, my heart hammering against my chest, my hands shaking in anger.

I’m furious—and the worst part is, I want to fucking cry.

I don’t. I hold my chin up high.

It would be too easy to dig into his own absolutely ancient age, but that would only prove his point.

How completely obnoxious.

“I won’t dignify that with a response, Hrakan.” I spit his true name out, and he scowls at me. It’s such a familiar expression that my pounding heart stutters in pain.

I want to close my eyes, to blot him out from in front of me. I’m not a selfish child.

I’m not even human, not anymore.

His words shouldn’t hurt. I should be beyond hurting.

Pain and anger are the only things I feel.

A menacing growl reverberates, and my gaze shifts from the merciless countenance of Death to the familiar furred beast who nudges him aside.

“Filarion,” I mutter, and now tears truly do threaten. “Fil, oh Fil,” I say as he bounds onto the bed, which creaks in protest under his weight.

As I pet his soft fur, trying desperately not to cry, I catch sight of my clothes.

Gone is the blood-soaked blouse, and I should have realized it before, when I checked the faded silver scar.

“You dressed me?” I choke out, fresh fury and indignation stamping out any lingering relief at Fil’s presence.

The huge cat butts his head against my hand again, and I scratch behind his velvety tufted ears out of habit, but my focus is solely on the asshole in front of me.

“You are my mate ,” he grates out. “We are fated, married, our souls joined in every way possible. The same souls that searched for each other from the moment you drank from the cursed chalice.”

“It might be romantic,” I drawl, “if you hadn’t stabbed me straight through the heart. Oh, and if you’d asked, or given me a ring, or?—”

“You simply have to have the last word, don’t you?” he sneers, and I make myself smile at him.

“If you want me as your wife , Sword?—”

“That is not my name.” The words grate out of him, anger sharpening every syllable.

I pick a piece of fuzz off the direcat, who’s busy kneading the bed with his plate sized paws.

“Riiiight. So sorry,” I say sarcastically. “I must have forgotten, since you have lied to me about everything since the first time I set eyes on you. And you lied to yourself too, I suppose, about how much you wanted me, if you took the time to undress me?—”

“I am a god,” he thunders, darkness swirling around his well-muscled calves.

“Welllll,” I draw the word out meaningfully. “You are certainly acting very god-like at the moment. Stoic, ancient, omniscient and all that.” I flap a hand at him, fluttering my eyelashes, some of my rage abating at the familiar jab. “And for someone who says I’m full of deceit, you really took it to a new level. Maybe I can learn from you after all, old man,” I purr, clinging to insults and sarcasm like a lifeline.

He stares at me, brow furrowed in clear annoyance.

“It must be a real trial for you,” I continue smoothly, pushing Filarion aside. It takes a few shoves to get the huge cat off me, but I pretend that’s fine.

“What is?” He looks on the edge of violence. Perfect. Right where I want him.

I stand slowly, the sheer shift he dolled me up in falling around my ankles, the puffy sleeves sliding from my shoulders. Absurd.

His jaw clenches, but his eyes—his eyes follow the curves of my body, and heat rushes through me at the memory of his hands on my skin, his lips on my flesh.

“To have taken someone as horrible as me for your bride. A human. Sola’s sworn.” I saunter closer, the luxe material swishing around my thighs.

White teeth flash as he bites his lip, a muscle ticking in his temple.

I stop, a hair’s breadth away from him. My heart slams against my chest, and as furious, as enraged as I am—his proximity still affects me. Still makes me want him… in spite of everything .

Uncertainty courses through me, and whatever bullshit I was about to spew disintegrates.

He said our souls were searching for each other.

What if he’s… right?

“You are no longer Sola’s sworn,” he says easily, an eyebrow lifting in challenge.

The statement—the surety with which he says it—dissolves my entire thought pattern.

“You look surprised.”

I frown at his tone. “Don’t patronize me?—”

“You might act like a child, but you are no longer human, no longer Sola’s sworn. In fact, you’re my equal more than you ever could have been before. True fated mates.”

I swallow at that, dread a lead weight in my stomach.

“In fact, instead of castigating me, you should be thanking me,” he finishes with an air of superiority.

Oh, fuck him. I should castigate and castrate him, the asshole.

I step closer, until the tips of my breasts brush against his chest, letting a delicate smile bloom across my face.

Raising my hand, I splay my palm across his chest, rubbing my thumb back and forth over his stupid beating heart, which makes me even madder.

His muscles tense, returning my smile with a tentative one of his own.

“You’re right,” I lie. “I should thank you, by stabbing you directly in the heart and seeing how you like it. Go fuck yourself, oh high and mighty god of death.” With that, I shove him as hard as I can, and to my surprise, he stumbles back, out the door, and I slam it shut.

If he’s smart, he’ll sleep with one eye open and a hand on his balls.

Filarion lets out a plaintive yowl, and I lean back against the door, letting my gaze drift to the ceiling above. My eyes close, the back of my head sliding against the door as I slowly collapse to the ground.

The tears that threatened have dried up, and I pull at the diaphanous gown where it’s puddled around my legs. Who the hells wears this kind of shit?

“Who does he think he is, huh?”

Well, apparently he’s the god of death, but whatever. If I’m to believe what he says, then I’m his fated mate, which makes me… what? Who?

Fuck.

I glance at the fluffy direcat. Fil doesn’t answer, just flicks his long tail back and forth. Probably better that he doesn’t answer. I don’t think I could take a talking cat right now, on top of everything else.

That would be a real recipe for a mental breakdown.

Unlike just coming back from the dead and being married, no, fated to the god of death. That’s fine.

I huff a joyless laugh, surveying the room for the first time.

A large tapestry hangs across the white stone wall, so old the colors are mostly faded. Desperate to think about anything but my current—and possibly permanent—predicament, I force myself up and walk over to it. The coarse weave tickles my fingertips, and I purse my lips as I take it in.

“You’re in this,” I tell Fil over my shoulder. He’s asleep, though, having made himself at home in the bed I’ve been… recovering in for gods only know how long.

Recovering isn’t the right word. Resurrecting?

A chill goes down my spine.

I shiver, returning my focus to the art before me. Between a woven frame of dull green vines, a battalion of direcats, alongside warriors who can only be Fae. Over their heads, several dark winged shapes dot the faded blue sky.

Dragons.

“They’re not real,” I say, touching one. “They weren’t real…” I chance a glance back at Fil, who opens one slitted cat eye. “They weren’t real, were they?”

He remains silent, though.

Across from the direcat forces, another Fae army stands, the artist deftly capturing the expressions of each figure large enough to feature in the piece.

And there, at the side of the opposing army, a pair of manticores, one ridden by a Fae woman I recognize instantly. My hand goes to my chest reflexively as I stare at her. Her statue was in the cave where he killed me; her likeness in the dorms where I was raised, the classrooms where I was trained.

Sola.

“You’re no longer Sola’s sworn,” Hrakan’s voice echoes in my memory.

What the hells does that mean?

I don’t know—I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.

And I’m not going to give that asshole the satisfaction of asking him. I grit my teeth. Even if he is my husband.