Page 103 of Mate of a Monster

I ignore it, licking my lips. Creed’s been honest so far, and I want to do the same. “Zevryn was all I had, and he didn’t get dropped on exile until I was a little older. He was my first and only friend. If I thought someone was toying with him the way you thought I was toying with Legend, I would have had zero hesitation. There would have been no research or caring about what his feelings might be on the subject. I would have cut their chest plate open and watched their guts spill out, and I would have done it without a second thought.”

He studies me for a moment, as though looking for any trace of insincerity, before finally allowing his shoulders to relax. An expression I can’t quite read slips over his face. But he gets it now.

Creed Deveraux and I? We’re more alike than one would think.

A gasp escapes me as I bend forward, wrapping an arm around my stomach as a deep clenching sensation digs at my insides. The tugging is growing stronger.

It started the second the mage severed the false thread. A persistent heaviness in my chest, even more so than anything I felt for the Nightkin, which was only half the weight. Now, the bond is suffocating. More insistent. Through it, I feel him in a way I couldn’t before.

He’s awake, the Nightkin murmurs; his voice curls through me like smoke through a cracked window, amused and unhurried. And he’s furious.

I felt it the moment he came to: confusion, then rage.

I drink.

“Interesting,” the Nightkin continues, “that might not be a strong enough drink.”

It is if I drink it all.

“He’s coming for you, Hellpet.”

Shivers break over my skin. I shake them off with a deep breath, bending back down to hand Creed his glass. He takes it, his fingers wrapping around mine, lifting his head up to meet my eyes.

Air shifts before any sound hits. The pulsing lights embedded in Crowsnest’s walls flare hard enough to buzz, cutting sharp white shadows across every surface. The whiskey in Creed’s cup trembles.

His expression changes in an instant, his fingers still on mine. “Haide?”

“I feel him.”

Splintering wood erupts as the door blows inward, torn off its hinges by a hit strong enough to fling shards across the room. Cool night air rushes in, potent with blood and rage.

Legend fills the doorway.

He looks wrecked. Split lip. Blood ground into his knuckles. A bruise swells high on his cheekbone like somebody got a clean shot in and enjoyed it. Collar torn so one side of his shirt hangs loose, and his chest yanks air like breathing turned into a fight he’s losing.

But my gods, he is glorious.

Then those eyes hit me and all the damage stops mattering. He pins me from across the room with a focus that doesn’t need distance or light, and fear tightens my skin.

The bond screams between us.

Heat bites through my feet and into my legs, lodging in the gaps between heartbeats, where pressure builds like it wants to crack me open and crawl inside.

His gaze drops to Creed, still on my floor, still too close.

Air goes flat and dead.

“Get up.” Legend’s voice comes out scraped raw, vibrating hard enough to make the lights flicker again. He turns his attention to his brother, yet I know that he is still all too aware of my presence in the room.

Creed pushes to his feet slowly, hands open at his sides. “Legend. Listen to me.”

“I said get up.” Legend steps into the room and the floorboards groan under him. “And get the fuck away from her.”

Creed keeps his hands where we can see them. “You’ve got it wrong.”

“What I think.” He marches forward and his magic seeps out in ropes of dark smoke, curling along the floor like an animal sniffing for blood. “You’re standing in a room with the woman you helped me throw away, and you want me to believe it’s a coincidence.”

Creed holds his ground. “I was trying to fix what I broke.”