Page 8 of The Shard and the Serpent (Shard Daughters #1)

Lace-Clad Storm

Rayze

Sand grinds against leather. I fucking hate the beach.

My nose scrunches as I wrangle my boots in an ungraceful march.

Every step is a hard sink, salt-thick wind chapping my lips.

The Sea of Veriyth looms, and the morning sun slashes across ravenous waves.

I glance over my shoulder at Rathem’s skyline, home to The Kraken’s rigging trade and all of its pirates.

No place in this Godsdamn realm is worse for a hunt, and yet here I am. Sweat dripping. Muscles aching. Questioning my loyalty to Fate. Hungry. Like really fucking hungry. And tired, my Gods .

Revenge is exhausting.

I had a perfect evening planned, my prey lined up for the taking. Synlon is a delightful mess—something I should be toasting with the Shard Daughters. I did my job, and I don’t ask for a lot.

Bloodshed. A good fuck. Maybe Aleksi’s ale and those cookies Sonya makes. Crispy on the outside, gooey in the middle.

Fuck this Bond. It never should’ve happened.

I don’t save men who can’t save themselves. What has he done to deserve a strip tease? He’s hardly bled enough.

Violent shouts crack between waves, and my gaze snaps ahead.

A familiar figure crashes over the edge of a massive ship, legs and arms wheeling. The Bond tugs, and Warrick Ivor smacks between hungry waves.

I glare at the tide.

It licks the shore like a creepy motherfucker.

I won’t. I refuse. Let him drown. Good riddance.

But a scorching fire ignites in my lungs. A phantom pain that drags me forward, closer .

I crane my head back to the sky— why? —and rip off my trench. I toss it and my bow to the shore with the last shreds of my dignity. Off comes my corset. My weapons. Each sacrificed layer—torture. It’s as if the Bond demands I bare myself to the ocean, be taken by its tide, and claim my enemy.

I shove the last band of weapons down my thigh. Next, my boots. My pants.

My will to live.

I crouch and run my fingers down the body of my bow, finding the small latch Aleksi built into its frame. I grit my teeth, but make my decision. I can’t risk the weapon falling into enemy hands.

I push the latch down, and my bow sinks into the sand, disappearing into a portal I know will take it home. Being so far away, however, means I’ve now lost all access to it until I can go and retrieve it. I repeat the process with my arrows, sending them to safety.

My daggers will have to be enough.

The Bond screeches . A snarl that coils along my ribs and rattles them like a cage.

This is a thirty-year-old man, ladies and gentlemen. It’s really not that hard to tread water.

I heave a breath, clad in black lace and fury, before I poke a toe into the water and recoil.

I roll my shoulders. Crack my neck.

Then I stride in.

The ocean lashes my hips, and I dive. Severe cold carves straight to the bone.

The Sea of Veriyth tears greedily against my skin, sensing my magic.

A thousand myths unfold behind my eyes. Dust-coated scrolls and days-long sermons among the halls of Shard House.

Warnings read and recited, each one a prophecy of what happens when a Daughter’s magic meets the sea.

A mirror.

Not of reflection but of consequence.

“Names are earned, Angel of Sin.” The sea grabs my ankles and drags me screaming into the dark. “Look at all you’ve done to serve yours.”

Salt rips at my eyes, my lips, my lungs. Memories flash and claw. Cut tongues and arrow-pierced throats. Naked, trembling flesh. Theirs. Mine. Blood and cum—

“You fight,” my mother’s scream rips through the water.

I swim blind, my arms cutting in violent arcs. The burn beneath my ribs quickens.

“You taste their blood before they ever taste yours.”

I break the surface, my magic begging for release. Fate swims to life. Thousands of threads writhe across the sea. They curl through every swell and snap of the tide, kissing the horizon and mapping the sky.

“Lead,” I gasp, and power cracks from my throat.

I lurch back, the crest of a wave punching me under. For a moment, all that exists is dark and salt and pain .

Then the current bends.

Waves fold, swirling in a tunnel toward a body lying face down in the water.

I plow forward. My arms strike in and out of the sea with the drive of my body, careful to avoid the sight-line of the ship cruising toward the shore.

“Ivor,” I heave. My eyes pin on several thin shafts. They pierce his back, glinting in the sunlight.

Arrows.

My jaw ticks.

Fuck this shit. If anyone gets to nail The Serpent Heir, it’s me. My Bond. My prey. My kill.

I snatch him with a snarl, lift his mask, and slap his cheek. “Hey.”

Again.

“Warrick.” I shake him.

Nothing. The threads of his essence sweep in a frenzy. They look transparent. Like they’re fading.

I blink away Fate’s veil and haul him toward the shore, his mask hooked over my wrist. My limbs burn as I kick through the current, every inch met with resistance, but I can’t risk using more magic. I’m too tired, and I don’t know what kind of fight waits for us.

I clamp my arm around his waist, dragging his front against mine. His cheek presses to my shoulder, the white streaks through his dark hair catching the sunlight. Storm clouds roll in, but for once, there’s warmth in the sky.

My gut knots and squeezes. Being close to him like this— touching him —the Bond comes alive. It reaches through me, begging me to trace every inch of his skin.

I bite my tongue and dig my nails into his vest.

I can’t.

My toes scrape dusty ocean floor, and I bend against the sudden force of Warrick’s dead weight. I hold back a groan as I scan the beach. The ship he jumped from docked nearby. A crew debarks, a stretcher with a body held between pirates.

What the fuck did he do?

Legs shaking with exhaustion, I drag Warrick onto the beach, lying him on his stomach. I fling his stupid mask to the pile of my clothes and survey the arrows sticking out of his back. Without sea or rain to slick it away, blood pools in the sunlight.

I fall into muscle-memory, every Daughter trained early in first aid. The tips stick into his skin, but his vest kept the arrows from wedging too deep. He needs them pulled out and his torso wrapped to staunch the bleeding.

I yank my coat from the sand and clutch it tight. Its worn edges flap against my cheeks, the smell of leather and rain a quiet balm. I bury my face into the fabric.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” I murmur and rip a knife from my discarded holster. Heart shattering, I cut long swatches of black.

He’ll pay for this.

Greatly.

With a small pile to use as bandages, I finally turn my attention to his back. I slice through his vest, small bits left attached to where the arrows stick into him.

I inhale, steady my hand. Then I yank the first steel head from his flesh.

His body convulses. Water tumbles from his mouth.

His eyes flash open.

I clap a hand over his lips and drive my knee against his ass, pinning him. “Don’t. Fucking. Move.”

His steel-blue gaze flashes with heat, but his pain wins. His head tilts into the sand, the breath from his nostrils tickling my knuckles.

I remove my fingers one by one before I grab a scrap of fabric, ball it, and shove it between his teeth. “Brace yourself.”

His back ripples with tension. His eyes squeeze shut.

I pull the arrows in quick succession, his back a mess of blood.

Warrick groans into the rag.

A traitorous pulse hits my core. I grit my teeth and exhale hard. He’s gagged, bleeding, at my mercy—it’s a perfect gift, and I can’t even unwrap it.

Quickly, I grab my makeshift bandages, balling the smaller pieces against each of his wounds. “Sit up,” I order.

He braces his hands against the sand and spits out the rag with a thrust of his arms upward. He tilts onto his knees, and I wrap the longer scraps of fabric around his torso, tongue between my teeth as I concentrate.

I tie each leather band off before I admire my work.

Not bad.

I don’t dare look at the ragged mess of my coat a foot away. If I do, I might cry. Instead, I lift my gaze to Warrick’s and freeze.

Hair plastered to his forehead, water dripping down the tensed curves of his jaw and neck, his eyes track over every bare inch of my skin. Slowly. Hungrily.

I smack my hand across his face.

His head swivels to the side with the force of it, and a low chuckle rumbles out of him. He lifts a hand to cup the imprint reddening his cheek and drags his gaze back to mine.

“My hero,” he mumbles, his voice rough with seawater, but his dark grin slides into a threatening scowl. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done, Rayze?”

A full-body shiver attacks me at the sound of my name. The Bond needles, hot and starved. My thighs crush together as a soft breath whooshes out of me.

Fuck, that’s powerful.

I force myself out of his pull and lift from the sand. “Me?” I grit out and pile my discarded clothes and weapons into my grasp, flinging his mask at his face.

“Yes, you,” he growls, catching it and stalking after me, but a string of curses leaves him.

I glance over my shoulder and swallow a laugh.

Warrick staggers, trying to lift a wet boot out of the sinking sand. He clips his mask at his waist and snarls. “Fucking Rathem,” he curses and clutches his bandaged torso with a wince.

I quicken my march, glee stringing along my spine when he huffs in wounded frustration. “Does the snake need my help again?” I call back.

“Are you actually offering?”

I bee-line for the sea caves on the outer border of the city. “Fuck no.”

“Thought so,” he grumbles, though its faint as I leave him to fend for himself against the beach.

Then—shouts.

Shit.

Heart in my throat, I turn wide eyes back to the docks. The Kraken’s crew jogs through the sand toward us, and Warrick’s frantic gaze locks with mine.

“I’ll fight,” he admits, “but I won’t win.”

I chew on my lip and count twelve pirates. They all have weapons. Easy. “I will.”

He scans my bare legs, wet lace, and see-through tank. “Like that?” he asks, his voice hoarse.