Page 151 of Wicked Magik

“Are you going to get her back?” Josephine held her handkerchief to her face. Soot dusted over her cheek. “We must get her back.”

Oryx snarled and pulled me closer to him. “Of course we will, she is ours!” He snapped his jaws at her. “Where is Benedict? We need to set out orders for those on the estate…”

Josephine bit her lip. “About that… he’s passed out and tied to a chair.” She poked at her lip. “Before the announcement we saw him with his luggage, that didn’t sit right with me.”

Pyrrah shook her head. “No, not one bit. So we hit him over the head with a frying pan and tied him up. He’s in the pantry.” She hooked her thumb over her shoulder.

A bone-rattling rumble emanated from Oryx's chest, stopping the servants mid-sweep as their wide eyes fixed on his massive form.

“Then let’s go interrogate the suspicious, shall we?”

Oryx

Fucking fire.

I hate fire. Especially when it was being thrown on me. Now everything smells like smoke, we will have to keep the windows open for months to air everything out.

Which won’t do. That will be a safety issue. When Vesper returns this house will become a fortress.

No one in, no one out.

She will be my precious pet that no one will ever get to see again.

I’m ready to kill something, someone, anyone.

The pantry doors splintered beneath my claws, revealing Benedict huddled in the corner—trembling like prey, a dark stain spreading across his trousers as his bladder betrayed him, yet again.

If I had lips, I would smile, instead I felt myself grow taller, my muscles bulged and the blood in my veins flowed faster.

I was going to kill him.

I licked my maw with my long tongue, my saliva dripped on the floor as I approached him.

Josephine and Pyrrah had done their work well. Benedict sat bound to a wooden chair, his wrists raw against the tight ropes, a makeshift gag of twisted kitchen towels muffling what might have been pleas or curses.

We will keep the females around for now, but they should have come to us, interrupted the announcement to tell us about this fool.

Veylor cleared his throat and walked past me and pushed down the rag in Benedict’s mouth. “Got something to say, dear friend?”

Benedict, smelling of piss and possibly of shit opened and closed his mouth.

I crouched until my eyes met his, then unhinged my jaw and unleashed a roar that reverberated off every surface of the cramped pantry. The shelves rattled violently—jars shattered, cans tumbled, and sacks of flour burst into clouds of white dust. The sheer force of my bellow sent his chair skidding backwarduntil it toppled, leaving him sprawled and whimpering on the floor.

Veylor patted me on the back. “That’s enough, love. We still need him talking.”

I huffed in annoyance and moved to the side to let Veylor take over. The females behind us stepped away and moved to the kitchen.

It’s for the best. It’s about to get bloody.

Veylor leaned over Benedict. He’s crying, like a tiny cat crying for milk. “Please, please don’t hurt me—”

I pulled on his leg and slung him, along with the chair in the middle of the room. He screamed when his head bumped the corner of a shelf.

Veylor tisked. “Oryx, what did I say?”

I grunted and stepped on the chair, bringing Benedict back up to eye level.

Veylor's shadows coiled around Benedict's throat, forcing his chin upward. "I want every detail," he said, voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "Why Vesper collapsed. What Sylvaine's planning. Why your bags were packed. Speak now, or—"