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Malice

Fuck.

Growling around a mouthful of cloth, he sinks his canines into the gag. The tang of blood coats his gums, which is predictable after twenty-four hours of the same. But hey, at least his mangled lips will match the shit he’s done to his wrists, rings of crimson leaking from where the shackles have cut into the flesh.

Whatever. Pain is good for the soul.

It’s also excellent for holding a grudge. Makes the revenge kill sweeter.

Languishing on the vault floor—what’s left of his home, away from home, away from home—he slams his bound hands against the jagged edge of a cinder block. Pounding, pounding, pounding. Over, and over, and fucking over. Still, the tricky little manacles stay in place like a recurring nightmare.

He would know. He’s an expert in nightmares. He likes being expert in things.

With every smash of his wrists, the clanging echoes like a hammer against his head. It dregs up visions, as black as muddy waters. A barred door slamming, locking him inside, the hinges echoing down a vacant hall. Shadows baiting him through the grille. His legs and biceps strapped like they are now.

Another inconvenient flashback. Hardly productive when he’s working on borrowed time. He’ll figure out what this latest vision means later, once he’s free.

Malice sucks steam through his nose. He must resemble a caged devil at this point. If so, he wears it well.

Only by some miracle did the curvy bitch neglect to secure his elbows. Unfortunately, things became problematic when the crew added chains and a muzzle to the game.

He rams against the block, crimson spraying from the gashes in his wrists. But instead of the shackles breaking, the goddamn rubble cracks in half.

Yeah. Fate is an ironic cunt that way.

And there goes his only chance to sever the bonds. Both chunks of cinder roll in opposite directions, tumbling over sediment from where the ceiling had collapsed during the rage god’s Icarus impersonation.

Although the crash had fucked up his leg and one hand, the shattered bones are stitching themselves back together. Living forever has its perks. Never mind that battering the shackles hadn’t tickled, delaying the healing process more than usual. It’s not like he isn’t used to that.

Anyway. Malice has to hand it to that crew. It’s been a day since they confiscated his bow and left him here, rotting among the wreckage of his past. A respectable means of torture while they’re free to spend time banging their mates.

The fire pit, telescope, and rocking chair have been reduced to dust. Most of the antique books are trampled too, including the works on Hades and Persephone, among his favorite abduction texts. Decor and archery are one thing, but abusing reading material? That crime won’t go unpunished.

As for the crate of envelopes, his heart races like a berserker until he spots the fragments of parchment scattered through the wreckage. Some have been destroyed, but not all. Only then does the anxiety settle, the sight yanking on a place in his chest, plucking it like a string.

Sure, he’s been checking every sixty seconds to make certain the letters survived. Hell no, he’s not going to stop.

If they take the leftovers from him…

If they touch those letters…

If she grabs them…

His taloned fingers curl into fists. A snarl knots in his throat. Slaughter won’t be a high enough price to compensate.

Really, this venom should be directed at Merry. She’s the hotshot who fired that arrow at his collection. Except targeting her has gotten old.

Whereas the other female is fresh meat. The wildflower with green eyes, scars on her hands, and a penetrating stare that has minced through his brain more times than he wants to count, chiefly because he hates math.

He won’t lie, especially since there’s no one else here. But that sublime look of hatred on her face, the way he riled her up with a few cheap barbs, had triggered him like a stimulant. Christ, how he would enjoy making it happen again, dishing out a special breed of animosity reserved just for her, then snacking on the goddess’s reaction like an unhealthy appetizer. He might take his time feeding on that guilty pleasure, swallowing it whole.

Goddess of Wonder.

A devious grin slices across his mouth. That’s when the gag loosens.

Out of nowhere, the cloth splits like a rookie prank. He’d been smirking so hard, his teeth cleaved through the material.

Well, well. Apparently, the enemy hasn’t taken everything from him. Funny how he’d forgotten his sharpest asset until this moment. If he can’t escape by brute force, he’ll have to get creative and exercise a different weapon. Chains do the job, but they mean nothing if the incarcerated demon has a brain—and a tongue.

Malice spits out the gag. He licks the blood from his lips, the flavor tasting of pomegranates.

Time to play rough. Because when he gets out of here, he won’t be leaving alone.

She had called him a monster. So he’ll give her a fucking monster.

His lips tilt. “Pack your bags, Wildflower. I’m coming for you.”