Series: Lords of Rathe Series by Meagan Brandy
Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 98580 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 493(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98580 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 493(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Fuck. I squeeze my eyes closed, the pressure behind them like the weight of a thousand fists.
Ben...
“I see you received my gift.”
Ice shoots through my veins, freezing my muscles in place.
Footsteps shuffle closer, and I pull at every single ounce of fucking strength I have left in an attempt to not appear half as broken as I feel, but all I can manage is to lift my eyes.
I know who the voice belongs to, but looking up into the void blue eyes of King fucking Arturo Deveraux is something I’ll never be prepared for. He’s terrifying. His entire being screams power. So much so it prickles along my skin like hundreds of bee stings all at once. I tense further when he steps right through the glowing magical bars keeping me locked in this closet of a cell, as if they were but a figment of my imagination—the burns covering my skin from trying to throw myself through them prove otherwise.
If my flesh is still capable of such human traits, then I’m one hundred percent sure the blood has drained from my face.
“Did you come here to kill me?” I ask meekly. I can hear the willing anticipation in my tone, even if I don’t recognize the scratchy voice it’s spoken in.
He tips his head, watching me closely, reading me the way only a Dark King with gifts of the mind can. “If I wanted you dead, do you think you would have woken at all?”
“If you’re anything like your son, then yes. I do. It’s more... dramatic. He clearly likes to put on a show.”
“Mmm,” the King hums, his eyes trained on mine. “Yes, he’s like his mother in that way. They all are, in fact.”
His penetrating gaze is too much, so I drop mine to the urn once more.
“He was your lover before Knight?” King Arturo wonders.
I don’t answer. I don’t care what they think and talking about Ben won’t undo what’s been done. It’ll only hurt worse, but the pain is already so damn paralyzing I can hardly take it.
It’s with that thought I look into the King’s eyes and remind him, “I murdered your daughter. Your only daughter. I took from you. I’ve ruined your Royal reputation by mating with your son. If I get the chance, I will ruin him too. I want to ruin him. I want to tear him apart from the inside out and watch as his heart stops beating. I hate him.”
Kill me. End me.
Eat me whole for all I care...
I wait, welcoming death, praying to the depths of fucking hell, where this family likely spawned from, but the King of Dark Magic doesn't move.
His expression doesn't change. No anger or rage or even impatience shows on his face as he pulls his hands from his suit pants pockets. He tugs at the thighs, bending to his knees until he’s eye level with me.
Instead of addressing what I’ve spoken, he says, “If you wish to survive this, forget who you became and remember who you were, Little Crow. You don’t...you die.”
With that, the King of fucking darkness stands, but before he walks away, he whispers, “The gift of the dark gods shall not pass on to just any, yet you hold the key in your hands. Remember that, Little Crow, and just when emerald eyes fall upon you, feast until you feel its soul.”
I watch the man until he disappears completely, and with every moment that ticks by, my mind races, the King’s words playing on a loop in my head for what seems like hours.
If you wish to survive this, forget who you became and remember who you were.
The riddle from the King’s mouth can mean one of two things, but I have no idea which is the correct answer, if either. The Deverauxs are manipulative and cunning, and no words from any of their mouths will ever mean a damn thing.
The King said I received his gift. He can only mean one thing.
Ben’s urn.
He had my best friend’s dead body sent to me, set on the bed next to my head, so when I woke in this fucking prison it was the first thing I saw.
A reminder, I’m sure.
Of what they can do—any and everything their black hearts desire.
Fury boils deep in my core and I dive headfirst into it, begging the angry darkness to take the rest away, but it’s too fresh. The cut too fucking deep.
My body starts to shake, convulsing where I sit, my legs crossed on the tiny mattress. And then something inside me snaps. It’s like my ribs have cracked beneath my skin, and I cry out.
My insides rage, my arms shooting out, hands flying open, and then there’s a sense of doom that falls over me.
My eyes fly open, just in time to watch the urn as it crashes to the floor with a deafening crack.