Page 17

The throne room is a study in sharp edges and shadows. Soaring obsidian ceilings drip with stalactites, and firelight winks off a thousand faceted surfaces, fracturing and refracting in disorienting patterns.

At the far end of the cavernous hall sits the throne itself. Carved from claws and fangs and other once-living bits fused into a singular piece of nightmarish furniture. It’s a throne meant to intimidate. To dominate any who dare approach.

The lair of a conqueror.

And there, draped across that grotesque seat like a bored god, is Kiaran MacKay in all his arrogant splendour.

My breath catches at the sight of him. The flickering fire caresses his elegant bone structure, limning his sharp cheekbones in wavering gold.

His shirt hangs open at the collar, offering tantalising glimpses of the glowing vines etched over pale skin—a mapwork of consequence.

Those familiar tattoos hold entire histories in their thorns.

One for every human life he’s taken over long, bloody centuries.

He sits with one long leg flung negligently over the throne’s gnarled armrest, regarding me with those violet and silver eyes. Remote. Untouchable. No flicker of warmth or recognition in their fathomless depths.

I stop several paces away, resisting the urge to close the space between us.

“Well, this place certainly has charm,” I say brightly.

“The decor choices are inspired. That throne really ties the whole ‘ominous lair of the damned’ aesthetic together.” I wave a hand.

“Though I do hope that monstrosity is a treasured heirloom and not something you made for yourself. Because choosing to plant your rear on a seat crafted from actual body parts seems rather dramatic, even for you.”

When he doesn’t respond, I make a show of turning to admire the throne room. “When your sister told me you’d erected a monument to overcompensation in the middle of the sea, I said, surely not. But here it is, large as life. Well done, it’s suitably impressive.”

Finally, I get a reaction out of him. His dark brow arches a fraction. “I admire my sister’s dedication in sending an assassin wearing my murdered consort’s face. But if Aithinne thought she might sway me with such a transparent ploy, then she ought to know better.”

His voice settles over me, impossibly soft and lethal all at once—a caress and a blade pressed between my ribs.

“Oh, this is my face, for better or worse,” I say.

“Except the eyes—those are new. But if I were going to steal someone’s appearance, I’d choose a less troublesome one.

” I unsheathe a dagger and test the edge against my thumb.

“Since I’m feeling charitable, how about I help redecorate before we move on to less pleasant business?

That seat offends me on a spiritual level. ”

Before he can react, I let the dagger fly. It embeds to the hilt inches from his head. Kiaran doesn’t even blink.

I click my tongue. “A decent shot, but not quite centred. I’ll have to keep practising.

At least it’s slightly more palatable now.

” I flash him an unrepentant grin. “I’m open to suggestions, if you have any decor critiques you’d like to share.

Maybe a nice accent colour to really bring out the existential despair and torture vibes in the stonework—”

Kiaran uncoils from the throne with lethal grace.

Power crackles in his wake, the temperature plummeting so fast my breath plumes before me.

He prowls down the steps until we’re nearly touching, so close now I’m enveloped in his scent—wood smoke and snow, so familiar.

He smells like stolen moments, like battle-drenched kisses and heated touches seared into my skin.

Like home.

“Whatever game you think you’re playing here,” he says, very softly, “I suggest you reconsider. You won’t enjoy the price.”

“Who says I’m playing?” I force words past the sudden ache in my chest. “I’m here because I want my consort back.”

Faster than I can track, his hand wraps around my throat. Not crushing, but a blunt promise of pain to come. Kiaran’s thumb drags slowly along my lower lip.

“ My consort is dead.”

I gasp his wrist. “Release me before I break your fingers and shove them down your throat.”

His mouth curves, but there’s no warmth in it. “You kill my sentries, storm my tower bristling with weapons, and now you threaten me in my own hall? So which will it be?” He leans closer, until our breaths mingle. “My blood, or are you offering me yours?”

“Try and take it.” I shape his true name softly between us. “ Kadamach .”

For one endless heartbeat, his composure fractures.

I watch emotions war across his face—rage, pain, desperate hunger.

The same feral need setting every nerve alight.

We always craved the same thing. To split each other open and leave our shattered pieces for the other to reconstruct.

To be undone. Because when we come together like this, with our true faces bared, we feel alive.

Every mask and pretence stripped away until nothing remains but us.

Kiaran’s lip curls back from his teeth, and he snarls low and vicious. In one blinding move, his dagger is freed from its sheath and arcing toward my throat. I twist aside on instinct, bringing my own blade up just in time to parry the blow.

He comes at me again and again, each punishing strike meant to maim and shatter. But I match his savagery blow for blow, our blades singing out as they meet. We whirl and crash through the hall in our lethal dance.

I feint left, then sweep my leg out to hook his knee, knocking him temporarily off-balance. We go down in a tangle of limbs, and somehow I end up pinned beneath the crushing weight of his body.

Kiaran braces his forearm across my collarbone. “Last chance to yield before I peel my consort’s face off you,” he growls. “I’ll nail it to my throne as a warning.”

I rear up, our mouths nearly touching. “I’ll strap you to that grotesque chair and make you listen to reason.”

His eyes blaze, only a thin ring of violet limning silver. “Maybe I’ll break you across it first.”

The air thickens to an unbearable weight. His power pours over me, ruthless and cold, clawing at my vision. But I refuse to bend. Not to him. Not like this.

So I reach deep inside for my own volatile magic, a wellspring of destructive potential. It ignites beneath my skin, building and building. I gather every shred of focus and concentration and hurl that chaotic energy out from me in a fiery blast.

It slams into Kiaran, sending him crashing into the far wall with enough force to crack the stone. I’m on my feet and closing the distance between us in heartbeats, ready to finish this. Gone is any pretence of restraint.

Our blades clash again and again in a flurry of movement. I can feel exhaustion tugging at my limbs, each parry growing slower. Weaker. Until one particularly vicious blow forces me to my knees.

“Go on then.” I tip my head, baring my throat in challenge. “Kill me. But I’ll crawl out of whatever hell you banish me to, again , and spend eternity making you pay for it.”

Kiaran’s dagger point traces a searing path down my sternum, parting fabric and just barely breaking the skin. A thin rivulet of crimson wells up in the wake of the blade. I can feel my pulse hammering out a frantic rhythm beneath the steel, but I brace for that final killing thrust.

Except it never comes.

In a blur almost too fast to track, Kiaran lets his dagger fall. Then his fist is knotted in my shirt, and he slams me back against the stone wall. The impact rattles my teeth even as shards of rock bite into my shoulders.

He pins my wrists above my head. I feel the unyielding planes of his body, the strength coiled in every muscle as his thighs bracket mine.

Then his hips shift, and I can’t bite back a ragged exhale as he presses against me.

Can’t stop from lifting into that blunt pressure, seeking more even as pain arcs up my spine.

“Kiaran.”

“I felt her die.” Each word grates out guttural and vicious. “I felt our bond shatter and her soul rip out of my fucking chest.”

His grip on my wrists tightens, a sharp pain lancing up my arms. But the physical ache is nothing compared to the wound his confession slices through my heart.

“The Cailleach resurrected me.” I have to make him understand. “That’s how I gained these powers. She—”

He cuts off my explanation with a rough shake. “ I don’t care .”

The words land like blows. I slide my fingers along his palm in deliberate strokes. Tracing the mark scarred into his skin, though its light has faded. My mark.

“This is mine,” I whisper. “And I want it back.”

But just as quickly as it surfaced, that glimmer of vulnerability is gone. His expression shutters. “I don’t give a fuck if you’re her or not.” Then his teeth find the tender flesh of my exposed throat, biting down with just enough force to punish. To bruise. “You should never have come here.”

And then his mouth crashes over mine, and there is nothing tender or gentle in it. Just hunger and punishing pressure. He kisses me like he wants to crawl inside and reshape me in his own image. Like he means to break open my ribs and remake my heart to match the yawning void in his chest.

He kisses me like he wants to ruin what’s left of me.

And god help me, I let him. I open my mouth to his, welcoming the violence of it. The slick slide of his tongue and the sharp scrape of his teeth. My body already knows the steps to this particular dance. I am all reckless hunger and bottomless desire.