Throne of the Fallen

She glanced around wildly; the damn dagger Blade had given her was still in its sheath, too far out of reach.

Vexley leaned in, eyes menacing.

How this man had ever fooled society into believing he was carefree was a mystery. Camilla now saw that his lopsided grin also indicated how off-kilter the scales of right and wrong inside him were.

She channeled her fear, her rage, feeling it collect beneath her skin. She would give him one more chance to unhand her.

“Let go of me, Vexley. Now.”

Her voice was calm, steady. It was a deception. One Vexley fell for.

He leaned into her harder, as if he could force their souls to twine right there. He wished for marriage. Till death do them part. She would grant him at least part of that wish.

He ought to have been paying attention to the silver in her eyes, gleaming like assassin’s blades, not the swath of skin between her breasts.

But Vexley wasn’t wise or observant. His selfish behavior would be his undoing.

His grip on her didn’t loosen. But she no longer cared.

Using that connection, every single place he touched her, she let that strange feeling under her skin loose. Perhaps she was mad. But she’d had enough.

Years of torment, of fear, of folding into herself instead of pushing back, exploded in a torrent of suppressed emotion. Like a dam breaking, everything she’d held back flooded her.

“What the—”

Camilla’s force surged through them both. Vexley’s eyes rolled, showing the whites.

His hands, now fused to her, couldn’t have unclasped her if he’d tried.

She watched distantly as he shook, his body violently convulsing, spittle forming at his mouth—like foam collecting on a churning sea.

She smelled the piss, the excrement, just before the pig collapsed onto his filth, his body twitching one last time.

Camilla stepped back, gaze fixed to the unmoving form, feeling void of emotion. In the distance, perhaps only in her mind, familiar female laughter snaked down her spine. She thought, for one dark second, that her mother would be proud.

She couldn’t say what made her look up; perhaps she knew he’d been there, watching from the shadows. Perhaps she’d simply wished him there and he’d come, summoned by the depravity of what she’d done, or the way she felt not an ounce of remorse.

Envy moved into the light, his attention locked on hers. He said nothing of the man lying dead at her feet. No judgment crossed his features, no fear or revulsion.

Camilla said nothing of the wounds leaking ichor from his body.

Or the brutal way he’d killed in that arena, the pleasure he’d seemed to take in death.

Maybe they were both damned, wicked things, broken in all the right places so they lined up, jagged edge to smooth.

He extended his hand, waiting.

Before she went to him, she grabbed the satchel Blade had gifted her. She didn’t spare another glance at Vexley as she stepped over him. Right now, Camilla wasn’t capable of regret, or worry. Not even shock.

Whatever feelings she’d stored up had emptied, as if she’d used them all.

Clasping Envy’s blood-speckled hand in hers, Camilla gave him one nod and braced for his magic as he whisked them away from the carnage of the vampire court.

FORTY-SIX

ENVY PULLED CAMILLA behind him, his battle senses on high alert, the pain inflicted by the hellebane still searing through him, honing his senses to a sharp blade.

They stood outside the private cottage on the outskirts of his grounds. He wanted a chance to speak with Camilla, to process all he’d just witnessed, and to clean himself up before deciding whether he should risk taking her into his castle. He’d need to walk his House first to ensure that the worst of his court’s failing would be hidden.

Now that would have to wait.

A shadow moved along the forest’s edge, bringing with it that sense of darkness that indicated one thing. Fae.

“Step into the clearing, slowly,” Envy commanded.

The Unseelie did.

The male had a shock of white hair, pale yellow eyes, and lashes blacker than ink. His brown boots were scuffed but well made, his shirtsleeves rolled to show off dark bronze forearms, toned and lethal. The shirt was wrinkled, but even in the dark Envy saw the fine weave of the linen. The Fae wore a hat tugged low, hiding his elegant pointed ears.

He looked like a mortal hunter who’d dashed out from the woods, weapon missing, but most didn’t realize he was the weapon.

Envy recognized him by reputation instantly.

“You’re a long way away from hunting maidens in the woods, Wolf.”

“Rumors abound.” The Fae smiled, revealing more of his face and discarding his human disguise. “They say you crowned a new vampire.”

Wolf’s voice was melodic, mesmerizing, and had been used to seduce more than a few mortals over the years. His voice was a sign he’d once held rank in his court, though he was a long way from home now.