Page 3 of The Shard and the Serpent (Shard Daughters #1)

Beautiful Toy

Rayze

Panic erupts, the arena a crush of bodies.

Sonya slices her fangs through a tatted throat, her Slayer whip tangled around a crony’s waist. She rips back, lips bloody as her victim foams at the mouth, mottled bruising spreading from her bite.

A Serpent hurtles toward her, blade arcing, battle cry cutting through the crowd.

Snap , snap —my arrows take his eyes.

He pitches to a halt. Dark tears spill, and his lips split with a broken cry.

Guards lunge onto the stage, shielding their Bosses. The Storm yells toward her daughter, and Satori swivels.

Sonya’s whip collides with the Heir’s leather-wrapped chest. Metal fangs scrape, try to embed, but Satori escapes their poison with a pivot.

Lucky bitch. Can’t have that.

I land a shot to her thigh.

The Storm Heir shrieks and snatches the shaft, ripping it out before her mother tugs her behind a blockade of chrome armor. They sprint into the dark of a tunnel, and Sonya darts after them, green braids flying.

I pivot my bow and cover Ender.

Aleksi stabs through a chest, yanks back, and swings in a muscled arc. Her spear slams between a crony’s legs, and he drops with a howl.

She swivels toward me, eyes blazing behind blood-splattered glasses. “Now, Sin,” she orders.

I aim between The Serpent’s brows.

Russell thrashes, shouting as cronies drag him offstage. Citizens rush in, desperate to take him down—only to be gutted and kicked aside.

Sweat streaks my temple.

My bowstring scrapes my cheek.

I steady my elbow.

Inhale.

Then a snake blocks my view.

I snarl and shoot.

My arrow slices cheek-to-cheek, blood spurting from the crony’s scream. She stumbles, but The Serpent is towed away.

I vault from the pillar.

Bodies shove and stampede. Skin rip from their manacled processions, their buyers pounded bloody into the ground. Children sob, mother’s grabbing their precious Bids from the cages and sprinting out of the arena.

I need one clear shot. One.

But I’ll do it with my bare hands if I must.

I snap my bow into its harness and rip two arrows from my coat.

“Choose your violence, Angel of Sin.”

A snake’s massive fist swings.

I duck, my pulse a steady drum. I anchor to its beat and impale thick muscle. His scream spits, my arrow digging into his thigh.

Then he slams to his knees.

“Protect your magic.”

I drive my second into his back. Tear through his vest. Slice until he’s face down and silent.

“You need no power but rage to kill.”

A blade slashes in my peripheral.

I spin—and catch.

Serpent steel saws into my palm. Blood gushes. Pain ruptures.

Silly snake. If he expected his big, bad blade to match Daughter strength, he’s poorly mistaken.

“Shard Daughters do not cry.”

A bone-deep ache punches through me.

“We get even.”

I smash my boot into his gut with a scream.

The snake crashes into retreating citizens before he bangs into the ground.

Teeth bared, I stomp on the back of his neck and wrench a pair of arrows from my coat.

He squirms—just for me. Beats his fists on the floor in a tantrum. “Please. Please. ”

The children he fucked probably said the same.

I plunge my arrows through his temples.

Blood sprays, hot on my face and fists. He jerks. Gargles and croaks. Then he falls slack.

My chest heaves, hair stringing around me in a dark veil. I glare at the back of his head.

Count my breaths.

One, two— oh.

Hello .

One finger at a time, I let go of the arrows embedded in the crony’s skull, eyes locked on a lone figure.

The last of the crowd tramples out of the Underground, Aleksi and Sonya gone. All of our monsters are on the run.

Except him .

Warrick Ivor.

Slowly, I rise, the leather of my coat hissing across stone.

The Heir stands stiff on stage, his diamond mask hooked at his waist. He brandishes his blade, its edge dripping. Open wounds litter his biceps and chest, cronies dead at his side.

His own snakes turned against him.

Fun.

My lips draw back with a tight smile, and I reach for my bow.

He tracks the movement, chest dipping. Heat and calculation war in his eyes before his scarred upper lip hooks with a smile to match mine.

I prowl forward. Pluck a fresh arrow from my coat.

He mirrors my stride.

Shoot to kill?

Or shoot to play?

Such a beautiful toy.

“Stay, little Serpent prince,” I rasp.

He dares to take another step forward, drinking me in. He runs a finger down his wet blade. “I’m hardly little,” he warns, low and sharp.

I kick a body out of my way, and a fire lights in his steel-blue gaze.

“Careful, baby,” I purr. “Start a game with those eyes, and it’ll end with an arrow between them.”

His smile ticks higher, wider.

“Play with me,” Warrick offers and steps to the edge of the stage. He swivels his blade and cocks a brow, silver studs flashing. “ Baby , I’ll even give you the first strike but—” He gestures to my entirety— “a second will cost, and I’m not sure you’re up for the price.”

Interesting.

“Then let’s play,” I grit out.

He drops to the ground. Blood trickles down the valley of his abs, an angry slash across his chest, but he rolls his shoulders back unphased.

“You don’t look like one of The Kraken’s spies,” he says. His eyes trace me. “Far too pretty.” His smile drifts into a feral grin. “Probably a better lay, too.”

I skirt around him, bow tight in my grasp. My gut stings with want. With inevitability.

“Who are you?” he murmurs.

I draw back my elbow.

A breath. A heartbeat. A reckoning.

My arrow sings.

Warrick lunges to the side. Silver kisses his bicep, steel drawing pretty red.

He smears two fingers over the wound. “Gods,” he breathes, throat working with a hard swallow.

I grin. Aim.

Then he launches.

Metal swings through the air. Inked snake scales ripple and warp across his body.

I sweep to a knee before his blade can cleave my neck and whack my bow against his ass with a winning smile.

Warrick stumbles, choking on a laugh. His blade clatters to the ground in surprise.

I pop to my feet, load, and shoot at his fucking smirk.

“Who sent you?” he asks, dropping to a squat without breaking a sweat, my arrow thunking into the wooden base of the stage.

Damn him.

“Assassins are strictly against The Accords,” he continues, but he doesn’t sound angry.

Not. At. All.

“Grab your weapon and fight me, Ivor,” I hiss.

“You sure?” he taunts and gestures to my cheeks. “Wouldn’t want to make that blush any darker.”

My breath catches. “I’m not—”

He kicks my bow out of my grasp.

I rear back, its steel frame crashing across the arena. Motherfucker .

Warrick straightens, his eyes bright—

And I barrel into his chest, wrenching his neck with a frustrated shout.

He chokes as we topple, his hands catching my hips. I pin him, straddling his waist and squeezing his pulse.

“Die, fucker,” I growl, my magic flaring and my vision slipping behind Fate’s veil.

A low groan leaves his parted lips. “Tighter then.”

Threads dance around him.

Joyful. Aroused.

Fate save me.

Rough fingers scrape over my exposed skin. His callouses. My waist.

My hands falter.

He gulps in air at the brief reprieve.

I scowl and press harder. His pulse hammers, but those sinful hands shift to my thighs.

He can’t breathe, is seconds from his end, and yet he touches me like I’m an altar for his final prayer.

My stomach flutters.

An inch. If he moves his thumbs an inch—

A deep haze of lust overtakes me.

Shit.

My hands shake.

This—I need to control this.

I seek the tiny lines strung through his skull and tethered to his memory. I try to summon the correct command to my tongue, but he pushes into a seated position and cages me in a tight hold.

His threads shift out of focus with my gasp, and my magic bows to his touch.

No .

I slam my hands into his chest, and we wrench apart.

Warrick grunts, his eyes are wild. He clutches his stomach as he stands. As if he feels it, too.

The tug.

The need.

Realization carves his face. Then guttural, terrifying words tear from his mouth.

“A Bond,” he bites out. “ Magic. ”

I snap to my feet and snatch a blade from the corpse next to us.

“How?” he demands and lunges. “How do you have magic?”

But I’m quicker.

I twist and crack my boot into his ribs.

He smacks against gravel and grime, his breath whooshing out of him.

I swivel the blade. Poise the hilt between my palms. Align sharp steel above his heart.

A hundred lives have passed through my fingers. His should be no exception, souls bound or not. A monster born from a monster. A perpetrator of the realm’s filth. Complicit and vile and—

Warrick snatches my calf and drags me down.

My knees hit stone, and I’m back where I started. Straddling him. His hands pin my hips.

“You,” he whispers, voice cracking. “You. Are. Mine .”

I press the tip of the blade to his chest.

Fine. If the game is sin, then it’s time he learns my true trade.

I grind down. Once. Expertly. Bracing against the blade’s hilt. Its tip cuts deeper with each masterful roll of my hips.

Warrick grabs the blade, jaw tight as it cuts into his palms. If he lets go, he’s dead.

Dark devotion swallows the blue in his gaze, his eyes brutal steel, and my hips stutter.

“Give me your name,” he whispers.

Red wets his skin. Paints a hard, beautiful canvas.

“I’m no one,” I force out.

“I don’t believe that for a second.” He thrusts in retaliation, and I bite back a moan.

“Name,” he demands.

“Earn it,” I breathe and match his move with ease.

His face tilts, trying to hide a gratifying spasm of his features, one of his dimple piercings on display.

I want to lick it.

Mine , he said.

Possession is a two-way street, motherfucker. If Fate commands my soul to twine with his, then I’ll be tying the knot with his screams.

I lean forward. To taste. To savor. To claim .

“Rayze,” Aleksi calls from afar, her voice echoing through tunnels.

Warrick and I jolt apart.

The blade clangs to the floor as I jump off him in alarm.

“Rayze,” he murmurs, his scarred lip hooking. “My Rayze.”

For fuck’s sake.

I race to my bow, leaping between bodies. I find it and string an arrow, fingers shaking.

My sisters sprint into the open cavern, and I pivot—

He’s gone.

My heart pounds. My gut stretches .

He’s running.

“Where the fuck were you?” Aleksi demands.

My throat thickens.

“He knows,” I tell them and lower my bow. “He knows magic exists.”