Page 32 of Wicked Vows (Cursed Darkness (DarkHallow Academy) #1)

Dathan

“ W hat the fuck?” I mutter, ducking as the window implodes. The silence that follows is haunting. She has passed out.

Evren snatches up the book and turns it to show us the new passage.

“What?” Verik snaps. “It wanted us to fuck her while it watched? Perverted fucking voyeurish cunt!” He snatches it out of Evren’s hand and throws it out of the smashed window.

We all watch as it lands on the bed beside Lysithea.

The book settles on the duvet, its single eye blinking slowly, smugly. It didn’t want us to fuck her. It wanted her to want us. Evren’s rejection of her, of the bond, was the failure.

“It’s a sentient lexicon that demands blood, secrets, and something far more intimate,” I say. “Intimacy. It’s not about sex. It’s about acceptance. He pushed her away, so it punished him, by punishing her.”

Evren makes a choked sound, a rasp of pure self-loathing.

“It’s not your fault,” I say, my voice rough. He looks at me, his eyes a frozen hell of his own making.

“We need to do whatever this book tells us to,” Verik says, his fingers steepled under his chin as if in prayer.

“And what if what it wants is too much to ask?” I say.

“Then it’s tough shit. We do it anyway.”

“Whatever it wants.”

“But how do we know? How were any of us supposed to know that was a test?”

“We don’t. That’s the point. It’s not a test if you know the answers. It’s a fucking trap.”

My gaze lands on Lysithea’s still form. She’s too pale, a porcelain doll broken by a game she never agreed to play. The sight makes my Scar ache in sympathy. Or rage.

Evren is a statue of self-recrimination.

I want to tell him it’s not his fault, but the words stick in my throat.

We’re all at fault here. We forged the cage for our own selfish reasons, mine truly, as self-serving as it could get.

A god of fear fears nothing, not even his own weakness.

Right? Now this fucking book is rattling the bars of the cage and all of us with it.

I move to the bed, my boots crunching on shards of glass. I pick up the grimoire. Its single eye stares at me, cold and ancient. It feels warm, sated. It fed on her pain.

My hunger stirs, a dark, coiling thing. I can feel the book’s intent. It doesn’t just want intimacy. It wants worship. It wants us to break ourselves at its altar, and it’s using her as the hammer. This Grimoire is our new god. A cruel, demanding bastard of a god that wants to watch us burn.

The irony is not lost on me. That is what we wanted… to be gods. Only now we are at the mercy of one who has a power over us that none of us will defy. This god can hurt Lysithea, cause her immeasurable agony, or even kill her.

And we will bow. We will kneel and we will fucking pray if it keeps her breathing.

I place the grimoire gently on the floor in the corner, as far from her as I can get it. The eye follows me, unblinking. It knows I’ve just sworn fealty. It knows it has me by the balls.

Evren makes a sound, a low, guttural noise of pure despair. He’s breaking, and we can’t afford that.

“Get a fucking grip,” I snap, my voice harsher than I meant to. “Your guilt won’t help her. Playing the game will.”

He looks at me, his ice-blue eyes shattered.

“Game,” Verik says, shaking his head. “We have been well and truly played.”

“And well deserved,” I snap. “We were messing with shit way above our pay grade. We all had our reasons, I get that, but we fucked up. Big time.”

“You don’t fucking say,” Verik snarls.

His words are a blade of useless anger. I ignore him. My gaze lands on her still form, a porcelain doll broken by our ambition. A wave of possessive fury washes over me. My Scar burns.

Evren moves, a ghost gliding to the bedside. He reaches out a trembling hand, hovering over her forehead as if afraid to touch her, afraid to hurt her again. The self-loathing rolling off him is so thick I can almost taste it. It’s bitter. Stale.

Verik surveys the shattered window, the cracked mirror. “Blackgrove.” He gestures with his head outside.

“Shit,” I mutter. I move in beside Verik and see Blackgrove on the opposite side of the courtyard, surveying the damage as it heals itself.

He turns on his heel and stalks off. At least he didn’t make this situation worse.

Yet. “Blackgrove isn’t our problem right now.

That is.” I jerk my chin towards the book in the corner.

Its eye watches us, a silent, patient god.

The rules have changed. We’re not players anymore. We’re pieces. Our only function is to protect the queen. No matter the cost.

I move to the other side of the bed. Evren’s cold seeps into the air, a manifestation of his grief. I reach out and place a hand on Lysithea’s ankle, a silent claim. A promise.

The Grimoire on the floor flips a single page. We all freeze.

The text about failure is gone. The page is blank. We have appeased our god by rallying and not defying it. We are here, pledging allegiance to it and Lysithea. Our goals have changed. Our needs and wants have changed. This is all about her now and keeping her pain-free and alive.

My fingers trace the intricate lines of the Scar on my arm. It’s a leash. But a leash works both ways. The book thinks it controls us, but it has no idea what happens when you corner three monsters and give them something to protect.

Lysithea stirs, a soft, pained sound that makes Evren flinch as if struck. His hand, still hovering over her, flattens against her back, and she sighs softly in relief. He looks like a ghost haunting his own guilt.

“Do more,” I whisper. “Give her what she wanted, what the book wants.”

He glares at me, the questions needing no words. What the fuck do you want me to do? Violate her while she sleeps?

“Touch her,” I growl. “Give her what she asked for.” His hesitation is annoying as fuck.

If it were me, I’d be all over her, but this isn’t about me.

This is about her and what she wants. Evren gulps and pulls the duvet back to expose her perfect tits.

Those pink, biteable nipples harden instantly against his chill.

His fingers hover. I feel my cock go hard.

With a growl born from frustration, I grab his hand and place it over her breast. His fingers stiffen, splayed out before he lets out a soft whimper and cups her.

I remove my hand as she arches her back into his touch. Her eyes fly open, her lips parted.

“The book wants him to touch you. It’s a bit of a pervert,” I state before she can start yelling at him.

“What?” she asks, staring into Evren’s eyes.

I launch into an explanation of everything I’ve gleaned over the last few minutes.

I lay it all out for her. The book, its hunger for intimacy, the failed test. I tell her how Evren’s rejection, his fear of hurting her, was seen as a defiance. How the book punished him by torturing her.

“It’s a god,” I finish, my voice low, my gaze flicking between her dazed eyes and Evren’s hand still cupping her breast. “A sick, twisted god that wants us to worship at its altar. And you, Thea, you’re the fucking altar.”

Her breath hitches. The information sinks in, a fresh poison on top of the pain. Her gaze drifts down to Evren’s hand, then back to his face. There’s no lust in her eyes, just a dawning, horrified understanding.

“So I’m its puppet,” she whispers, the words raw.

“We’re its acolytes,” Verik corrects from the corner, his voice grim. “And you’re the sacrament.”

“It’s a game of submission,” I continue, my gaze locked on hers. “We submit to its will, or you pay the price. Right now, its will is for him to touch you.”

Evren’s thumb makes a slow, hesitant circle on her skin, and she shivers, a reaction that has nothing to do with his cold. He’s terrified, but he’s doing it. He’s playing the game.

“The rules are simple,” I continue. “We give the book whatever it wants. We keep you breathing. No matter the cost.”

Her violet eyes find mine, and the fight is still there, a banked ember in the ashes of her pain. “And what if I don’t want to play?”

“Do you really want to find out?”