Page 10 of The Shard and the Serpent (Shard Daughters #1)

Stark Need

Warrick

The tunnels swell with heat and bodies, and I tighten my grip on Rayze. From every corner, gambles and screams before laughter and the clank of steel drowns them out.

What was empty stone an hour ago now groans beneath the weight of the crowd, water rushing beneath the grated flooring of Rathem’s Underground.

Pirates spill from bolted doors and narrow archways carved into black rock.

Forges blaze to life, belching smoke and sparks across the crowd.

Copper limbs twitch on blood-stained tables, wires coiled like entrails.

“You can rest,” I tell Rayze, her blinks growing longer with every step, eyes drooping.

She stiffens at the sound of my voice. “I’m fine,” she mutters.

HALF-PRICED RIGS , banners swing overhead, and the crowd thickens as a conveyor belt along the cavernous ceiling lurches into action with a fresh haul of The Kraken’s prime product.

Hanging from rusted hooks are the glass-eyed bodies of The Rigged.

They dangle in a long, winding procession.

Steam puffs soft and rhythmic from the vents at their necks, pirates studying the crude modifications of weapons grafted into skin, throwing coin at any rig they believe will win in a fight.

I squeeze us through the Underground, and Rayze finally presses closer, arms locking around my shoulders. I study her when I can, swallowing down my questions about magic and assassinations, choosing to enjoy this, whatever this is, for as long as I have it.

Her face is angled just enough that I catch the small ticks to her features. She’s pierced her lip, her ears, and her brow, little studs and hoops glimmering when she frowns—which is often.

She’s infuriatingly beautiful. I’m desperate to know more, know everything, but she’s too intense. Any question only yields a blunt, unhelpful response.

Her gaze flicks from stall to stall, nostrils flaring against the scent of scorched metal and worse. She tracks every cage, every rig, her disgust crawling across the Bond. It drags through me, unrelenting.

A kid darts past us, barefoot and grinning, but the man tailing him isn’t. He reaches for rope strung at his belt— a bounty hunter .

I slam my shoulder into his.

He spins sideways and reaches for a knife sheathed at his thigh. Then he stops.

Diamond glints, my Heir mask catching in the buzzing neon lights lining the conveyor belt.

The hunter stumbles back, swallowing whatever curse he was about to spit, and Rayze shifts against me.

She watches the kid vanish safely into the crowd. Then her eyes flick up to mine. She says nothing, but her face softens. Her fingers curl at the back of my neck, her lips parting like she means to ask me a question, but she looks away.

Our Bond wrings tight with displeasure.

It’s hard to get used to, suddenly being leashed to her. My gut is always moving, an eternal flow state rippling from me to her. It’s harder to feel so connected and still be strangers.

I don’t even know her last name, and knowing it isn’t just a want. It’s a deep, carnal need. I want to know everything about her.

She glances up at me, feeling my gaze boring into her.

I offer a small grin.

She scowls and releases my neck, folding her arms again.

Damn it.

The metal beneath us thuds in uneven panels. Gears churn somewhere deep in Rathem’s core, coughing heat and rhythm into these walls like breath through iron lungs. Rust-dyed tarps hang overhead, trapping smoke and sweat in thick layers.

Rayze turns her head, jaw set as a cloaked, masked merchant for The Vile sells something pickled in a jar. Something human.

She hates this place.

I hate it, too, but I also know it like the scars lining my palm, ugly and unavoidable.

The Underground was carved beneath our cities before any of us were born. Rathem’s section has always worn its filth like a crown. The Heirs and I spent hours drinking in Kraken taverns. Young. Stupid. When we thought becoming Bosses would solve all our problems.

I miss being that hopeful.

Mounted into a wooden door ahead, The Serpent crest glows in faint emerald neon. I slow.

“You mind?” I ask, nodding toward the brass knocker hooked into the door. “My hands are a little full.”

Rayze hesitates. “A tavern?”

“The only place I trust enough to stay the night in Rathem.”

She gives me a long look. Then she reaches to the heavy brass and knocks.

The door groans open, and a familiar waitress flashes me a wide smile. “Warrick! This is a nice surprise,” Bruce says, the waitress juggling a tray of ale.

Rayze snorts, and I pinch her thigh. “Hey,” she growls.

“I can be charming,” I insist.

Bruce eyes us, flicking her feathered pink boa over her shoulder. “Penelope is in the back,” she continues, ushering us inside. “Watch your step.”

Slurred sea shanties thunder through the cramped tavern. A man crashes into a table, blood coating the floor. Above, a woman swings from low-hanging fabrics, pouring ale down the throats of paying customers bound to the back wall by leather straps.

In the corner: Skin. Provided by The Serpent.

Rayze clutches her stomach, fingers balling into tight fists. Her judgment burns into me.

She’s not wrong for it, but she’s not right, either.

I grit my teeth and push through bodies. “It’s at the back,” I murmur as a fight breaks out on my heels. Glass shatters. Fragments cut against my cheek but I’m too tired to care.

“Where are you taking me?” she demands, but she won’t look at me.

“A place.”

“Is it safe?”

“Enough.”

I weave through drunks, pirates fucking on tables. Ale spills. Laughter cracks like whips.

In the back is a heavy set of velvet.

I push through curtain after curtain. The fabric clings to us, static licking through my hair. I don’t stop until I hit an iron grate, locked shut. On the other side is a hallway. Green-painted doors, a snake carved into each.

Pleasure rooms.

Dark eyes peer between black bars. “Serpent Heir, we weren’t expecting you until the winter,” a breathy voice slips through.

“Impromptu visit,” I say.

Blond hair slinks over a knobby shoulder. “The usual?”

Rayze adjusts in my arms. Like she wants to kill me or run. Maybe both.

I flash the elderly tavern owner an unbothered smile. “Yes, Penelope. The usual.”

Anything else would raise flags. Questions. Reports. Me carrying a woman into a pleasure room? That’s expected. Almost comforting in this place, even if I never have.

The grate groans as it lifts, chains grinding.

Penelope gestures us forward with a flick of her wrist, then turns on her heels and glides ahead, her bare feet whispering across damp stone.

Moans bleed through doors. Brass sconces flicker, the lightning trapped inside casting our shadows in long, shuddering shapes. I follow, Rayze’s silence wrapping tighter than any noose.

“It may be dusty,” Penelope says. “Doesn’t get much traffic and I didn’t know you were comin’. How long will you stay?”

“We’ll be here for the night,” I tell her. “Thank you.” I step inside, and she shuts the door with a soft click.

The tavern’s raucous heartbeat dulls to a distant thrum. The room flickers in the orange glow of low-burning lanterns, shadows curling along the walls.

My throat works as I stare at the bed. My gut stirs, weakening my knees with a sudden onslaught of stark need.

Fuck. I am not a good enough man for this shit.

Rayze

“Put me down, Warrick,” I bite out.

His fingers flex against my bare thigh.

“ Now .”

He relents and dumps me on a monstrous bed, the glittering black chiffon gracing its canopy stirring. The mattress dips with my sudden weight, and a long exhale squeezes out of me. I slump into the cushions as I survey the room.

His usual.

Velvet drapes spill down rough brick walls, pinned back with tarnished gold cords. Copper sconces flicker above gear-lined pipework, steam hissing in slow intervals that makes the burgundy tile sweat.

There’s a table in one corner, a kitchenette in another, and a bathroom behind a glass-panel door. The whole place smells like dust and stale sex.

A palace for a monster.

I shudder against the bed’s duvet and roll to my side, desperate not to lie in the same place the Heir’s likely fucked Skin.

“What are you doing?” Warrick asks, stepping to me before I can fall.

I shove him away. “I’ll sit at the kitchen table,” I say. Then I think better of it. I’ve sure as hell fucked on tables. I swallow, eyeing the counters, the chairs, the floor.

Nowhere is safe.

“Baby, I only sleep here,” he says, his voice tight.

“I’m not your ‘baby’,” I spit and lean into the bed.

Warrick points to the duvet. “Lay the fuck down, Rayze.”

I glare.

He matches it. “I mean it. Ruel and I used this as a crash pad. We used to drink with Satori and Deimos here. That’s all.”

“Ruel?” I lift a brow. “I’ve been meaning to ask about the body those pirates carried off that ship.”

“I didn’t kill him,” he says, but he grimaces. “I think.”

“You think you didn’t kill the Heir of the Rig Trade?” I demand, swaying on one leg.

“For fuck’s sake,” he snaps and grabs me by the hips. I swallow a yelp as he lifts me off the ground and plants me on the bed.

I blink a few times, my lungs squeezing as the Bond flares from his touch.

“I don’t fuck Russell’s product.” He grits his teeth, his nose inches from mine. “I didn’t kill Ruel, and while we’re at it—I didn’t hire assassins to break The Accords. So you’re going to tell me exactly who you are. Right now.”

“I’m Rayze.”

His thumbs dig into my waist. “And?”

“And we’re Bonded.”

“ And? ” he seethes.

“And I’m an assassin.”

He rips back, clutching his head. He paces the room, ripping off his vest and cinching his makeshift bandages tighter as blood drips to the floor.

“Careful,” I mutter and collapse into his pillows. “You’ll hurt yourself thinking so hard.”

He stops at the end of the bed. “Look at me,” he growls.

I close my eyes.

The Bond cords with tension.

Then the bed dips beside me.

I peer through my lashes, his back to me as he tugs his belt open and slides out of his wet pants, salt tinkling across the tile. “You’re not sleeping next to me,” I argue.

“Fuck you. This is my room. My bed.” He lies back, muscles bunching as he curls his hands behind his head, his glare to the ceiling. “You want me gone? Start talking, vicious. Otherwise, I’m too tired to give a shit about what you want.”

He glances over, and I shut my eyes before they can wander lower than his chest. “Good night,” he finishes, his breath warm against my shoulder.

“Night,” I mutter and hug myself.

We fall quiet, the Bond warping and twisting between us. Still, we don’t move.

Spite. The miracle killer of sexual tension.

Then fabric whacks me in the face.

“What the fuck ?” I muffle into a pillow, batting it away and snapping my gaze to Warrick.

He resumes his glare toward the ceiling. “For your ankle. You need to elevate it before it swells any larger. I’m not carrying your heavy ass again.”

I inhale and push into a seated position. “Fine. I wanted to get under the covers anyways,” I start, but the words die on my tongue as I see him.

All of him.

His long legs are stretched across the bed, all thick muscle and inked skin. Black briefs cling tight, barely containing the outline of his cock. The snakes tattooed across his hips vanish beneath the fabric, only to slither back down his thighs and calves.

My mouth dries.

“It’s only fair,” he says, his voice low as he gestures to my underwear and tank. “After putting me through this torture.”

I swallow. “You’re a dick.”

“So are you.”

Fair.

“I really am tired,” I try.

“Then go to sleep.”

The Bond yanks at his words, and we both stiffen.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, his hand dropping to his cock. He adjusts himself. “That’s intense.”

My pussy flutters, and I blanch.

A low chuckle rumbles through his chest. “You may not talk much, vicious, but your face sure as fuck does.”

“Let’s get back to Ruel,” I say, desperate to pivot the conversation.

I pry the duvet out from under me and cover myself before I strip out of my itchy lace and tank. I toss the thin pieces of fabric to the floor with a wet smack and bend awkwardly to prop my ankle on a pillow beneath the blanket.

“I need to know if he’s dead,” I continue, tucking the covers beneath my arms and turning my cheek into the pillow to face him.

I tense.

Dark need sharpens Warrick’s face.

The Bond ruptures with his desire, and all of my thoughts leave me as he traces a single finger down the slope of my neck and shoulder.

“I don’t think the head wound was fatal,” he whispers, his eyes on my pulse.

“You’re touching me,” I whisper back.

His large palm sweeps back to my throat, his thumb bracing my chin. Slowly, he lifts his gaze to mine. “Yes, I am.” He squeezes lightly. “Do you want me to stop?”

“Yes,” I force out.

Warrick pulls back, his grin sinful. “Liars shouldn’t be so pretty.”

“I’m not lying.”

He eyes me for a long moment. Then he winks. “Okay.”

“Don’t fucking wink at me, asshole.”

He chuckles and pulls back the covers on his side. “Calm down. I’m not touching you.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m cold.”

“Then put your clothes back on.”

Warrick sprawls under the blanket. “You first.”

“Quit trying to goad me,” I hiss.

His lip piercing flashes with his broad smile. “Good night, Rayze.”

“Cuddle me, and you’ll never wake up.”

“Cuddle me , and I’ll cuddle you back.” He clears his throat, his face twisting as he tries to come up with some kind of threat to match mine. “So hard,” he finally finishes.

I bite back a laugh, cursing myself. “Fuck off.” I turn my back to him, careful to keep my ankle elevated, and pass out to the low rumble of his laugh shaking the bed.