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CHAPTER SEVEN

S errik did not know what to expect when he felt Ava pass into the dreamworld they shared. Throughout the course of the day he had felt her emotions. Seen them play out in front of him, though he was mute and deaf to the actions that had inspired them.

It was infuriating to no end to only feel the result of actions he could not divine the source of. He had not felt the walls of his cage pressing in on him in centuries—had not wanted to throw himself against its bars and claw at the walls in a very, very long time.

He had not had a reason to.

But now? Now?

He bared his fangs at no one, snarled at the empty air, and paced his library like the feral beast he was underneath all his desperate and pointless attempts to hide it.

Throughout the day he had sensed only her emotions, filling the vacuous emptiness left by his own. Echoing loudly in the chamber he had hollowed out in his chest, they resonated all the louder.

First, it was attraction. Then came her embarrassment, her fear, her unease—then her pain, her anger, her betrayal.

He was not certain which was worse. The thought of the inevitable loss of her affections—that he pointedly reminded himself he did not have in the first place—to another, or whatever blow she had endured shortly after.

But what made it unbearable for him, what made it even more hideously insufferable , was not knowing.

Blind. Deaf. Not even with tactile sensations to guide him. Little more than a medium calling upon the moods of spirits around him.

So when the Weaver appeared in her dreaming, barely visible form, it took every ounce of his will not to nearly hurl himself at her, demanding answers.

Yet it seems she did the task for him.

He had not known what to expect, given her violently shifting moods.

But it had not been for her to come charging at him, hurling invectives and fists in equal measure.

“Fuck you, you flouncy arrogant piece of shit!” For someone so relatively small, she truly did carry the rage of a great snorting ox. “You knew—you knew the entire time that they—you?—!”

He deflected the punches she aimed for his face. But the ones she struck upon his chest or the kicks she landed on his legs, he allowed. She could not damage him. Nor did he expect that was truly her goal.

This was not about harm.

This was about pain.

Her pain.

He accepted each and every strike.

And could only remark to himself how damnably beautiful she was.

Gray-green eyes flashing in anger, those full lips of hers twisted in a perfect expression of fury.

Her small frame that fit so perfectly against his.

That frame that he found his thoughts lingering upon daily, and how it might feel clenched around his?—

The taste of his own venom against his tongue served as an appropriate reminder of the inappropriate nature of his thoughts. Of how his body tightened in need to her nearness—how her anger only seemed to ignite his passion and test the limits of his control .

One drop of his poison would be all it would take, and she would melt in his arms. Two, and she would beg for him to bind her in his golden threads. Three, and she would be in his thrall, ready to accept even his true form into her willing flesh.

Enough.

She has suffered enough.

“You knew!” She shoved him, and he allowed the shove to push him back a step. Mostly so that it did not knock her over with the effort.

“What, precisely, did I know?” It surprised even himself how calm and unconcerned he sounded.

“Nos and Ibin. And—and Bitty. They were—they were working with Valroy the entire time, telling him—” Her voice cracked. He saw her teeter on the dangerous edge between anger and grief. The scales tipped dangerously toward agony, but she wrestled it back with a growl. “And you said nothing!”

“That is a gross mischaracterization.” If she needed somewhere to pour her fury, he could easily provide it. “How many times did I warn you not to trust them?”

“Oh—oh, you can eat a bag of dicks, Serrik.” She paced away from him.

“Disembodied or attached? Disembodied, I assume, since they are being carried in a tote.” He hummed, examining his gold fingernails. He was being purposefully irritating, partially for his own amusement, and partially for her sake. “Colorful, but unimpressive. Many cultures consider such thing a?—”

“Shut the fuck up!” She rounded on him. “You never told me why. You only told me not to. You never said ‘oh, by the way, they’re spies working for Valroy, so maybe you shouldn’t do anything they tell you to!’”

“And what difference would it have made?” He laughed quietly, cold and cutting. “Would you have listened to me? No. You would not have. I warned you about Valroy—told you all of what he schemes, and still you ran to him. You abandoned the safety of the Web to?—”

“Safety!” It was her turn to laugh, this time in disbelief. “Safety. Says the guy turning me into a Halloween-pumpkin-turned-nuclear-warhead! This is all your fault, fuck-stick.”

“Yes. It is.” He shrugged idly. “Have I ever denied that?”

She blinked, almost astonished that he admitted it so readily. “You ruined my life.”

“Now that is a lie I will not allow. I pulled you here from the human realm. I put you on the path to turn you into the Weaver.” He took a slow step up to her. “But I ask you—from what did I take you? What was the alternative, Ava?”

To her credit, she held her ground, though he could see the uncertainty in her eyes as her gaze flicked between his own eyes, searching for something. “I had a life. I was free. I was human.”

“There are only three instances in which a human comes to the Web. Those who are sent here by the fae because they are dangerous—which you were not. Those who come here willingly seeking power—which you did not.” He reached up a hand and let his fingers hover underneath her chin, just the barest ghost of a touch, lifting her head toward his.

“And those humans who are already as good as dead…nothing more than an insect, beating out its last, tiny moments of existence before the spider drinks its fill.”

“I am not an insect—” Her muscles were taut. She was ready to explode.

“No, you are not. Not anymore. But when I took you, do you know what I saw?” He smirked. “A crumpled body at the bottom of a ravine. You, jumping to your death. You were already dead, Ava. That is why I was allowed to pull you here. My power cannot affect those with any hope in their heart.”

“You’re wrong.” It was a whisper.

“You were going to kill yourself a few hours after I took you, if I left your path unaltered.” He could not help but watch her lips as he spoke. He wished to taste them again. By the void, he needed her.

“Fuck. You.” Her voice teetered on the edge of grief once more .

No. He had to pull her back to anger. “Tell me, do you think your father would have grieved over your corpse? Or do you think he would have simply disposed of you as he did your mother—eager to be done with that shameful and ugly part of his past? I think a part of him must be relieved you have simply gone missing. He needn’t even pay for the cost of a funeral.

How convenient you have made it for h?—”

His head snapped to the side with the impact of the slap she paid him. His cheek stung. Brief, but not wholly insignificant. It must have hurt her more to strike him so very hard.

He hadn’t felt anything so wonderful in a long time. Shutting his eyes for a moment, he savored the feeling before turning back to her. There was not an ounce of fear in her. Not a flicker of sadness.

Simply rage.

A furious goddess in the making stood before him, wearing a “t-shirt” and “jeans.” She was unlike anything he could have imagined in all the centuries he had spent in solitude, wondering if he would ever have his revenge. Wondering if his mad scheme to make a Weaver would ever come to fruition.

In all his wildest imaginings, he had never thought it would be anyone like her.

She went to strike him again.

He caught her wrist before she could.

Leaning in, he could not help himself. It was too much. The beast in him was snapping at the end of its leash, foaming at the mouth. He grazed his teeth along the heel of her hand, wanting with every beat of his heart to sink his fangs into her wrist and be done with it.

Instead, he kissed the center of her palm. Slowly. Never taking his eyes from hers.

He did not miss how her own eyes widened just slightly at his touch. It did not escape him how her pulse quickened beneath his grasp. Or how her cheeks quickly grew pinker.

When her other hand came up to try to complete the task the first could not, he caught it and yanked both behind her back. Clasping them in one of his much larger hands at her lower back, he pulled her flush against his chest.

And nearly groaned at the feeling of her there—the warmth, the pressure—the perfect sensation of her body. It had been so long since he had felt the touch of another. It had been eighteen hundred years since he had experienced it in the waking world—and he never would again.

“Serrik—” She breathed out his name, half angry, half painted thick with a desire that he understood.

He saw the conflict warring in her eyes, the way her breath hitched, caught somewhere between a curse and something else entirely.

The anger was still there, a wildfire that smoldered but was not yet extinguished.

Crucially, it now mingled with the heat flushing her skin and the rapid beat of her heart against his chest.

Perhaps he could turn this anger into something else…

“Yes?” His voice was a low purr, dangerously soft.

He tilted his head, bringing his face closer to hers, their noses almost touching.

The scent of her—muted through the dream, even as it was—was rich, intoxicating, nearly overwhelming.

It reminded him of the late summer, of trees heavy with fruit, of fields of berries, and of the air that was just starting to cool before the fall.

It mixed with something uniquely Ava . The combination of it filled his senses, pushing the beast within him further against its restraints.

“You called my name, Weaver. What is it you desire?”

Her eyes narrowed, the gray-green depths flashing like storm clouds.

“Let. Me. Go.” Each word was clipped, precise, and uttered through clenched teeth.

She strained against his hold, twisting her wrists in his grasp, trying to push him away with her shoulders, her hips, anything. But he was immovable.

And her squirming was only making matters more problematic for him.

“And why would I do that?” He brushed his lips against the shell of her ear, feeling her shudder. “You came here seeking a fight. You found one. Are you finished already?” He nipped at her earlobe, a sharp, predatory gesture that was more threat than affection. “Disappointing.”

“I fucking hate you,” she spat, the words raw with emotion. She threw her head back, trying to create space, but he merely followed, crowding her, pressing her more firmly against the unyielding wall of his body.

“Do you?” he murmured against her jawline, his own control fraying thread by thread.

Her anger, her fight, the sheer life radiating from her was an intoxicating drug he hadn’t tasted in millennia.

“Your pulse tells a different story. Your skin tells a different story.” He let his free hand trace the line of her side, from her ribs down to the flare of her hip, feeling the tremors that ran through her.

“Even now, I think you are fighting with what you desire. I think you burn for me.”

“Who the fuck do you think you are, burn for —knock it off!” she cried, renewing her struggles with a ferocity that surprised him.

She managed to wrench one hand partially free, enough to shove hard against his chest. It did little to move him, but the defiance, the sheer refusal to yield, snapped the last vestiges of his restraint. “I’m mad at you, I don’t?—”

“Anger, desire…they are not mutually exclusive, now are they, little Weaver?” he snarled, the sound guttural, inhuman.

Before she could answer, before she could strike or scream or curse him again, his mouth crashed down on hers.

It wasn't gentle. It wasn't tender. It was a collision, a claiming, fueled by centuries of isolation, weeks of maddening proximity, and the raw, violent energy currently sparking between them.

She was his Weaver.

His butterfly.

And it was time he made sure she knew it.

One way or another.