Page 38 of The Reaping Rose

His mention of Wilder breaks me from the mental cage that has me frozen.

I shove Malachi back a step. “Wilder is my mate.”

He smirks, not responding to that. “You’ll need me. And when you do, you’ll have no choice but to come. Where the river meets the sea and the Well drinks us down. At the peak of the full moon, I’ll be waiting for you.”

When he reaches for me this time, I take a step back. His finger snags on the necklace Callum gave me. It tugs for a moment before it snaps, and when it falls from my neck, Malachi fades, and my vision goes black. The necklace is gone in the darkness, breaking me free from Malachi’s grasp.

But now, there may be no way out.

The room disappears, and I’m back between obsidian walls. No longer at my mother’s cell or in the chamber that led to my nightmares. I’m in an endless hallway that reminds me of the jail in the human village. These doors have bars on either side, and there are creatures lurking behind them.

Some stay in the shadows, while others step forward.

Many have pointed Fae ears, but their faces are unique hues in this light. Gray blue that I’ve only seen in the corpses carried out.

A few stand at the edges of their cells, watching me. Whispering in tongues.

I rub my ears but can’t make out what they’re saying. Runes float along the bars. They glow in the floor below, and I feel it pulling me somewhere.

Where is it trying to take me?

The hallways empty, and the cells are long gone now. At first, I think it might be Callum’s necklace starting to guide my way. Until the path ahead finally becomes clear. At the end is a polished patch of stone, surrounded by a circle of runes. Deep in my bones I know where I am.

This isn’t the cell of any prisoner—it’s mine.

I freeze and the hallway tunnels. The end stretches. A rope tugs taut at the other end, pulling me toward it. When I try to take a step back, I can’t.

It would be easier.

The thought bleeds into my mind from somewhere unknown. It’s not a whisper of the prison but a part of myself.

You could stay. Accept it.

My nails dig into my hair as I try to shake the doubt. The harder I push, the deeper its claws settle.

Think of all the pain you’ve caused. Your father ran into that street trying to protect you. He could have lived a long, happy life had you just been burned on the pyre from the start.

“No!” My scream echoes so loudly I cover my ears.

But nothing keeps it out. Nothing stops these doubts from creeping through me.

Isolde suffered enough in her life. Yet you let her die for you. You let her sacrifice herself when the Arches are closed. And now, she’ll never find her mate in Sarrow.

“I didn’t ask her to do that.” I drop to my knees. “I didn’t want her to do that.”

They sacrificed for you.

Bled for you.

Died for you.

Why do you deserve to be here, and they don’t?

“I don’t deserve to be here.” That confession is a whisper.

Is it defeat speaking or me? What’s the difference anymore? I’ve been thriving on false hope, rallying others in a battle I don’t know that I can win. Promising swords will open gates, and rings will protect the village. It’s utterly ridiculous.

The prison’s fingers sink deeper.