Page 43 of Queen of Shadows and Ruin (The Nightfire Quartet #4)

FORTY-TWO

Rabin’s mind was a sinking cavern of dark halls and corners. He couldn’t seem to focus. All he could see was red. Rage and hate and anger. He wanted to kill and rip and shred.

He wanted her .

He wanted to sink his teeth into her flesh and taste her blood. He wanted to tear her apart piece by piece and then crunch through her bones.

Her.

He knew her. He knew he was supposed to protect her and that something tied them together. He recognized her voice and the way she smelled. He could sense her buried somewhere in the depths of his subconscious. He knew something was off.

He was supposed to protect her, guard her with his life.

But he wanted death.

His mind was tormented by dark shadows and screaming voices.

She was the object of his rage, and the only way to end it would be to end himself. Somewhere in the spiral of his tumbling thoughts, he knew this.

Rabin bellowed out a roar so raw it made his throat hurt. He’d lost her. He’d battered himself bloody trying to break into the tunnel, but it was too much. She’d escaped, and deep down, that made him feel something almost like relief.

But he would hunt her again.

He’d resist it. He’d tried to resist the urge to go after her. He’d thrown himself against the cavern walls for hours, attempting to snap himself out of his crippling rage , but it was no use. Something kept him tied to her. Something kept calling her. To seek her out. To bite and tear and shred.

Exhausted from hunting, he flopped onto the ground, his head lying between his claws. He inhaled deeply, his hot breath kicking up a cloud of dust with every powerful gust.

The warring thoughts in his mind made his head hurt and his vision blur. His eyes drifted shut as he tried to find peace. He saw something in the layers of his mind—something bright and shiny—something he knew he should want but couldn’t reach.

He shifted as he tried to get closer, reaching for it.

Her .

He knew it was her. He didn’t know how, but he was sure she was calling to him. Why would she call to him when he’d tried to hurt her? Not tried. He had hurt her. He noted the blood on his claws, congealed with bits of flesh and clothing.

Slowly, he dragged his arm closer before his forked tongue lashed out, licking the tips of his talons.

The taste filled his head, and a memory returned—an electric flavor layered with shadows, light, and happiness . That was the only way he could describe it, whatever this was.

Whoever she was—she was happiness.

But he wanted her dead.

Why?

Why couldn’t he remember?