Page 64 of They Call Me Blue

LYRICK

A zerin grabs my wrist and pulls me from the exposed mining tunnel before it can suck me in. I collapse onto my hands and knees, coughing up icy water, my nostrils burning. Rainfall pelts me freely, and when I glance back up, the glass ceiling is gone.

The gazebo is gone.

Azerin and I stand on what remains of the mosaic tiles, but the rest have fallen into a flooded mining tunnel.

Wiping my nose, I pull my hair into a bun and try to make sense of the wreckage in front of me.

Through a curtain of rain, elgrew fall into the ground, clawing at dirt and moss to reach the surface as millions of gallons of water flood the property, collapsing every support structure beneath.

Something groans and mine and Azerin’s attention pivots toward the sound. The estate. Its cracked foundation is falling into the wreckage, and the cold-iron mines are deep enough to consume it all. We glance at each other at the exact same time, sharing the exact same thought.

Tyla.

“Help the others,” Azerin commands. “I have to go back for her.”

Open-mouthed, I stare at the gardens that stand between us and the estate. They’re all gone, with no way to cross them and no way to reach her.

“Dad—” My throat bobs.

“Help the others.”

And he takes off, disappearing behind rainfall and scrabbling bodies, trying not to fall in.

The lake might as well be the entire godsdamned property.

A slushy, muddy mess squishes beside me, threatening to collapse when I put any weight on it.

I re-button my pants and search for my peers.

Colette, Ryla, Sorso’s daughter—they’re nowhere in sight.

Yaklan kneels beside a nearby tunnel, staring at the muddy depths.

“She’s gone,” he whispers. And it’s the sound of a broken man. I don’t need to ask to know who he’s speaking about. Vera. His mate. “I . . . She just slipped through my fingers.”

A million emotions flicker across his face, and I can see him contemplating jumping in too, going after her. But it’s a death sentence. The water could have carried her anywhere. She’s likely trapped beneath the dirt or dead on impact. “You can’t,” I tell him. “Yaklan, you can’t get her back.”

Reaching under his armpits, I yank him to his feet.

Then, I realize what my father didn’t. There’s no one left to help. In the time it’s taken me to speak with Yaklan, those scrabbling at the surface have either pulled themselves up or fallen down. And once they’re down . . .

Something cracks, and the estate tilts onto its side, smashing into the dirt as it sinks. I can’t see my father—if he’s reached it or not—but shattered glass covers the mucky dirt and uprooted trees drag against the current.

In the collapsed tunnel nearest to me, a mattress lies half in the water, half on the ground, but Brawler’s not on it. The initial burst must’ve taken her too. Fury and hatred wind their way through every fiber of my being. That fucking bitch killed her own people just to spite us.

And now she’ll suffer for it.

I peer into the rain and darkness where the service elevator had been. There Arden stands, naked and smiling, like she’s proud of this. I snarl at her and then I give chase.

ARDEN

I did it. I fucking did it!

Icy rain pelts my skin as I take in the destruction my bombs have wrought.

The estate was supposed to be empty when I attacked, but this is so much better—thousands of Hunters dead in a single, sweeping blow, their screams a Marr-damn symphony as they struggle to climb from the collapsed mining tunnels and fail.

Grinning, I watch Azerin’s house fall into the murky water and full-body laugh, doubling over with it. Free of cold iron, my mind clears for the first time in hours, the rain washing sweat and metallic dust away until I can finally breathe again.

I should either be trapped or dead, but I’m not. I’m—

A dark silhouette appears on the other side of the flooded tunnel closest to me, and my palm burns. Glancing down at my body, I stare in horror at my too-long arms and legs, my full breasts that weren’t there before, and swallow. I’m totally and completely fucked.

Lyrick’s face emerges through the downpour, serrated teeth flashing.

And I bolt.

I don’t search for an escape route—there’s no time. Heart pounding, lungs screaming, I take off toward the ramparts and hope a path will reveal itself. I have minutes until other Hunters spot me and come to Lyrick’s aid. The chaos helps, but not enough to save my life.

Bluewood trees block my path. I weave through them, twigs snapping, mud squishing underfoot, stumbling and tripping over my newfound legs. My gait is too long, my weight too awkward. I don’t know how to move in this new body, and it’s so fucking inconvenient.

Through the rain, I can’t hear him, but I can see him—his dark silhouette getting closer with each of my missteps.

My foot lands in mud that’s too squishy and I sink up to my ankle.

“Come on,” I shout, tugging on my calf, trying to wedge it free.

Lyrick’s glowing violet eyes appear in my periphery, him nearly close enough to touch me.

But I tug harder, frustrated tears burning my eyes.

I didn’t come all this way to fail at the finish line.

My foot shloops free and I trip backwards, slipping in the muck.

Bark scrapes against my back and branches tangle in my soaking hair as I collide with one of the bluewood trees.

I grit my teeth and keep going. Thunder booms, vibrating the ground, and lightning flashes, igniting the entire skyline in silver.

There.

The brightness lasts just long enough to expose a gap in the northwest rampart, where a collapsed tunnel cracked and sank the bricks. If I can make it past the bluewood trees, then clear the sunken dirt, I’m free. My scar burns so hotly, it feels like my palm is on fire.

“You’ll never be free,” Lyrick hisses. “I will make you pay for what you’ve done.”

An icy chill spreads through me. But I’m almost there.

Chest heaving, I race toward that single spot on the rampart, through wet grasses that scratch at my calves and thighs.

My feet slip and I go sliding on my ass, smacking into flowers and mud.

Wet tendrils of hair cling to my cheeks, stabbing into my eyes as he approaches, looming over me like some kind of dark and vengeful god.

A pair of twin daggers are sheathed at his sides.

He removes them faster than I can blink and climbs atop me.

He isn’t out of breath. He isn’t covered in muck or grime.

And I realize then he’s been toying with me, letting me run myself to exhaustion.

Like Morcai. Like the swamp dog. Using my own fucking tactics against me.

I buck against him, but his weight is substantial.

One of Lyrick’s daggers slides to my neck and pauses there—so fucking close to killing me. The other hovers at my liver, poking but not spearing through. Yet.

“What are you waiting for?” I hiss.

Lyrick glares at me—those amethyst eyes colder than the rain. “Death is too good for you,” he says. “I spent years deluding myself into believing your kind were innocent. That we should be better. But I don’t want to be better. Not with you.”

The pressure on my liver eases as he re-sheathes the blade and withdraws something from his leather tunic. A glass vial filled with silver berries. Rowan berries. My heart stutters, thudding against my ribcage so hard I fear it might crack.

“Lyrick, no.” I shake my head, but the blade on my throat only digs in deeper when he un-stoppers the vial with his teeth and shoves it to my lips.

“Open your mouth.”

“Please.” Tears burn my eyes. I pat the ground beside me, looking for something that can help, that can stop him, but there’s nothing. The glass digs past my lips, clicking against my gritted teeth, and my throat turns achingly dry.

Rain drips down his eyes, his cheeks, his chin, but he doesn’t blink. His pupils are blown to saucers, breath reeking of floral oil. “Swallow.”

I obey, having no other choice. My whole body trembles as the berries slip into my mouth—spicy and metallic, like blood soaked in chili powder. They burn all the way down, settling in my stomach like lead balls. I narrow my eyes at him as he pulls the vial out and pockets it.

“Fuck you,” I spit.

“That’s the plan.”

The warmth of the berries spreads outward, from my stomach to my chest to the tips of my fingers. I shudder at the sensation, my limbs so heavy they can barely twitch, let alone move. I’m at his mercy, my tongue too swollen to form words.

The dagger slides away from my neck and Lyrick moves to spread my thighs apart, flipping the weapon so he’s holding it by the blade. The grooved pommel taps against my most sensitive part—that little bundle of nerves I didn’t have before today—and I jolt at the icy hardness.

“Your pussy looks exactly as I imagined it,” Lyrick says. He grinds the pommel into me, moving it in slow, agonizing circles around my clit. The grooved edges bite into my flesh, turning it swollen. Despite the pain—maybe because of it—moisture pools between my thighs, getting me slick for him.

It’s not my fault it feels good. It’s the berries.

The lavender. The Marr-damn bond between us.

But I hate myself regardless. Each twist of the pommel, each flick of his wrist has my brain turning mushy at the edges, tension coiling in my lower stomach, until he removes the dagger and slides it lower.

Its hard length presses against my wet center, poised and ready, and I stiffen beneath him.

I can’t speak, but I can still think. I can still make him hear me. “Lyrick, please don’t do this.”

“It’ll hurt worse if I take you without it, but if that’s what you want . . .” Lyrick reaches for his belt buckle, and I shake my head emphatically. “That’s what I thought.”