Page 63 of They Call Me Blue

The tone in his voice is final. But the thought of anyone else catching her, pinning her, biting her, doing to Arden what I did to Sorso’s mate sends fire coursing through my veins.

But how can I admit to Azerin who she is to me and what I’ve done?

There are seventy-nine deaths on my hands, including that of a child, because I foolishly released her all those years ago. I’m culpable—legally and morally.

“You can’t let them catch you,” I whisper to her. “Do you understand?”

She doesn’t answer.

I press another blunt between my lips and try to soothe my jittery nerves.

If the guards find Arden, I’m fucked—unless Azerin chooses to cover up my crime.

I take a deep breath and let the sweetened smoke roll over my tongue, then hold it there before puffing it out in concentric circles.

Surely, he won’t let them burn me. Right?

Up above, rain tinks against the blue stained-glass roof that covers Azerin’s gazebo.

It’s little more than a drizzle, but thunder rumbles in the distance, threatening to crack open the sky.

Brawler and I wait alone for the breeding ceremony—me from my throne, her from the enormous bed at the gazebo’s center.

She sits crisscross in the middle of it, unchained and uncuffed, staring out into the flower gardens where bonfires flicker, illuminating the ongoing orgy in red light.

I don’t want to fuck her.

I don’t know if I can .

Despite the lavender, my cock revolts at the idea of touching anyone but my mate.

Even Sarvenna’s lost her appeal, and I fucking hate Arden for that.

I blow out more smoke rings—this time toward Brawler’s cheek.

She doesn’t flinch. Her blown pupils are locked somewhere deep within the crowd—perhaps hoping someone will save her. Or maybe she’s too high to care.

Footsteps shuffle up the gazebo’s blue-tiled steps, and my gaze swivels to the entryway where Yaklan opens the creaky gate, pulling Vera on a leash behind him.

Around her throat, a golden collar gleams in the torchlight—covered in pink topaz and glittering diamonds.

Matching gemstones peek out from her pierced nipples—her breasts exposed for everyone to see.

Sheer, blush-colored harem pants hang low on her hips and there’s nothing beneath them.

I try not to stare at the hundreds of bites that scar her body from toe to neck, all belonging to Yaklan. She doesn’t acknowledge me. Like a good pet, she keeps her head hung low, her gaze on the floor. If I didn’t know better, I’d never suspect the creature means something to him.

Yaklan offers me a gentle smile and walks to his throne beside mine, softly tugging on Vera’s leather leash—not metal because Yaklan knows she won’t run. The outfit, the collar, it’s all for show. And it’s a damn good one.

I’d like to see Arden in my collar, covered in my marks.

The thought catches me off guard. It’s not something I’ve ever yearned for before, but gods, do I want it now, and I’m horrified by it.

Terrified that I might be no better than the others.

But then I take another draw from my blunt, and suddenly I care just a little less.

It’s not like Talin’s around to be disappointed in me, and it’s not like I’m going to act on it.

She’s nothing but an animal— food —no matter what our bond would have me believe.

Still, all sorts of violent, possessive thoughts run rampant through my drug-addled mind, blurring together. I’m lost to them—my heavy head lolling, my muscles relaxing into the chair—by the time I hear Yaklan clear his throat.

Who knows how long he’s been trying to speak to me.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Too much lavender.”

I offer him the blunt, but he motions me away. “I’ve never cared for the stuff.”

Yaklan lowers himself onto his throne and commands Vera to her knees beside him, where she seats herself between his thighs and stares at his cock—the way all trained elves are taught to.

For a moment, I wonder if she’ll take him out, if he’ll make her.

And then I imagine Arden the same way, and sweet venom gushes into my throat.

“I didn’t see you at the greeting ceremony earlier,” he says, shredding my daydream. “Where were you?”

My vision swims when I shift in my seat to better meet his gaze.

I consider a real explanation, but I’m not sure how many words I can speak without slurring, and I might say something damning by accident.

So, I settle for, “Security issue.” And then, “Why is Vera here? I thought you didn’t take her out in public. ”

“Azerin sent for her,” he says sourly. “For big events like these, he likes that I bring her out and remind our subjects she exists.”

More Karesai enter the gazebo, interrupting our conversation—first Colette then Ryla, claiming their seats around the mattress.

Three witnesses down, two more to go.

A small, female Butcher prances through the gate—not in the traditional suit, but in a frilly black dress with a matching apron to cover it.

Her cleaver barely fits inside its tiny pockets.

She’s less deformed than most purples, with scars running down her body where the Stitchers have cut lumps and bone spurs out.

Wealthy Butchers don’t replace their skin and muscle the way grays do; they use elgrew donors instead—criminals sentenced to death.

I’ve never met the woman before, but I don’t need to to know she’s Sorso’s eldest daughter, next in line for his position when he dies.

“Your father couldn’t make it?” Yaklan asks as the Butcher takes her seat on Sorso’s throne. She practically drowns in it—her body so much smaller, so much more petite than its normal occupant. Dark purple hair cascades down her shoulders, shifting as she shakes her head.

“His myrie is in delivery,” she says in this wispy, airy voice.

Yaklan’s brows pinch together. “She’s having an emergency cesarean? I wasn’t aware.”

“No.” The woman rolls her eyes at him. Her purple lips twist into a wicked smile. “ She’s in delivery .”

I nearly choke on my smoke. The other Karesai blanch, their faces going several shades paler.

That bastard is going to force her to give birth the natural way.

I open my mouth—a dozen insults burning a hole through my tongue—but the sound of dress shoes clacking against the mosaicked tiles cut me off, and we all turn our heads.

Azerin crosses the gazebo’s threshold with a death whistle in hand. Before I can ask him if the guards have found our intruder, he subtly shakes his head. And then he blows the shrieking whistle and the drumbeats stop.

Silence.

No grunts, moans, or giggling laughter from the crowd. Just the sounds of our own breathing.

Thunder booms and lightning streaks across the dark horizon, illuminating the gardens in a silver flash.

Thousands of gray bodies extend from one side of the property to the other—some on blankets, others in open-flapped tents—all joined in pleasure.

But they stop fucking to stare at me. To either celebrate with me or watch me fail.

Either way, it’ll be a damn good show.

I take a final pull from my blunt before tossing it behind me, over the gazebo’s railing where the moist flowers consume its glowing embers.

As I work up the courage to stand, Azerin tightens an amplification mask to his face and addresses the crowd.

“As you all know, Lyrick has decided to take his first myrie tonight, and you’re all invited to bear witness. ”

The drumbeats resume but change in tempo to something that sounds more akin to a death march—which is exactly what’ll happen if I can’t perform tonight. But I’m not thinking about Brawler. I’m thinking about Arden, wishing she’d find a way to save me from this godsdamned nightmare.

“Where are you?” I ask.

My palm aches from how close she is, and it’s so fucking irritating that she won’t respond. It doesn’t matter though; there’s nothing she can do to stop this.

Metal groans as I stand from my chair, and Colette joins me at the mattress, her puffy red dress bouncing with each step.

From deep pockets within her crinoline skirts, she procures an ink pen and a crisp sheet of parchment made from elf skin, bleached to appear white.

She unfolds the parchment then passes it to me, revealing a standard breeding contract with mine and Brawler’s names at the top.

Underneath it is the name of Brawler’s Bracer, granting me temporary ownership for the duration of the pregnancy.

Eyes narrowed in concentration, I try to read the several paragraphs of text below, but the words shift and blur in and out of focus, forming an incoherent jumble in my mind.

It doesn’t matter though—Colette’s not fool enough to bamboozle another Karesai with hidden loopholes or secret texts, and I know the process well enough.

After I sign the papers, a witness from each caste will certify the union by signing below mine, and then Colette will give me rowan berries to feed to Brawler in front of everyone.

I snatch the pen from her, my sweaty palms shaking. But I manage to scribble my name on the dotted line. Colette’s puffy, red-stained lips take on this smug expression, though she says nothing as she collects the parchment and pen, then passes it to Azerin and the others.

My stomach knots as I watch each of them sign it, their expressions uncaring or, worse, pleased.

Fuck. They’re really going to make me do this.

Colette returns the contract to her pocket, exchanging it for a small vial of glittering silver berries. One is enough to make Brawler ovulate, but there are several inside. I take it from her—the glass warm to the touch—and she returns to her seat.

Brawler still isn’t looking at me. Her gaze is on the horizon.

Thunder rumbles close enough to shake the gazebo, and another flash of lightning brightens the landscape, revealing what she’s staring at—the turquoise lake. More specifically, the small building leading to its service elevator and underground dam.

Strange. Still, it’s better to have her look at that than me.

Dark water churns, lapping against the lakeshore as more and more lightning streaks the sky. Rain pelts the glass above us in a steady downpour, and the flickering bonfires that surround the gazebo hiss, sputtering to stay alive.

I ignore it all, the bed creaking as I climb onto it and kneel before Brawler.

Stomach knotting, I uncork the vial and shake a rowan berry loose, where it rolls onto my palm, dusting my skin in a thin silver coating that resembles elf’s blood.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, low enough that only she can hear me.

I refuse to look at her as I stopper the vial and return the remaining berries to my swamp-dog tunic.

Brawler doesn’t fight me when I grab her cheeks and squeeze, forcing her mouth open.

Her lips pop into an O and I shove the berry down her throat, past teeth every bit as sharp as mine.

A full body shudder ripples through her, and then every muscle, every bone practically turns to liquid.

She gags on my fingers then slumps, her irises shifting from dull gray to bright silver.

It’s strange to find her so pliable after watching what she did to Big Arms in the arena.

Saliva slicks my fingers, but I wipe them off on the mattress before repositioning her.

I don’t want to see Brawler’s face. I can’t.

Even the lavender isn’t strong enough to let me take her in such a personal way.

I’m acutely aware of all ten-thousand eyes on us as I move behind her and push her face into the plush bedding.

Over my shoulder, Azerin nods in encouragement.

It should be easy. But it isn’t.

Every part of me revolts as I slip my fingers into her waistband and yank down, exposing her ass to me. Arousal glistens between Brawler’s thighs, and she’s just as agreeable as Ryla promised she’d be. I could be done with it in a matter of minutes. The creature won’t even remember.

Swallowing, I pull myself out and jerk myself to hardness.

Despite my worries, the lavender amplifies the sensation and my purple cock springs to life.

It’s nothing like the male elves’ reproductive organs—it’s thick and grooved, with bumps that span from base to tip.

Stretching elves before sex isn’t just a kindness, it’s a necessity to make it fit without tearing.

But I don’t want to touch her.

I can’t . It would be no better than fucking an ox or a snake. She’s innocent in all this—undeserving.

As if sensing my thoughts, Azerin appears beside me.

He flashes open his suit jacket, revealing a cold-iron knife that gleams when the lightning strikes, branching out above us.

I’m no longer fool enough to believe Azerin would stab me himself, but that wouldn’t stop Ryla or Colette or any of the other onlookers who already doubt my loyalties.

The message is clear enough. Do it or die.

My gaze swivels around the gazebo, looking for someone— anyone —to stop me. But no one does.

Brawler lifts her head, and her gaze returns to that spot on the horizon.

My pit organs open on reflex to find a light gray silhouette creeping from the dam’s service entrance.

It’s not colorful or iridescent, but I’m drawn to it regardless.

My vision reverts to normal, and I squint into the darkness as that figure drags something behind her—a spool of silver threads with strings leading back to the building.

“Get on with it,” Azerin growls, too low to be heard above the rain. But I’m not listening to him. I’m staring at the creature, my palm burning in recognition even though the bite isn’t visible.

Lightning bursts across the sky, and then I see it.

Blue hair. Blue skin. Mine.

“Arden?”

She lifts her chin and our gazes lock. Then she jerks the strings, and the world collapses out from underneath me.