Page 13 of Mate of a Monster

My smile softens. “Our bond is still fragile. My magic won’t relax with you in danger.”

“Okay, my mate.” She reaches out to touch my cheek, but the ground vibrates beneath us. Her lashes flutter as she looks over my shoulder, before quickly heading back into the castle.

Demonic smoke slowly clears, revealing the beast completely.

His one eye closes for a moment before they both snap open—locking directly on me.

I don’t even register that I’ve moved until the heat of his breath brushes my face and shattered stone crunches beneath my boots. Magic surges between us, but it doesn’t come at me the way it should. It threads through my ribs and settles under my skin until I can’t tell where his fury ends and mine begins.

There’s something beneath it all, though: something jagged and wrong for a creature forged from loyalty. And I don’t understand why it feels like it’s mine to carry.

Betrayal. It burns straight through my core.

Slowly, painfully, he rises, wings dragging against broken stone as he lifts back into the storm.

Only when a hand clamps onto my shoulder do I realize I’ve fallen to my knees.

I look up at Creed, but his eyes aren’t on me.

They’re fixed on the dragon disappearing into the clouds. And there’s something on my brother’s face I don’t think I’ve ever seen before.

Fear.

Chapter Three

Haide

My hand shoots out to stop Zev’s movements. “Why is everything so quiet?”

Zev chuckles, shaking his head. “The Nightkin fixed the island in more ways than you know, Luda. Come.” He nudges his head toward the forest, toward the end of the corridor where darkness bleeds into the glow. “We’re here. Remember Argent’s rock?”

My skin prickles at the words. “Yeah.” It means more to me now that I’ve been to Rathe. Now that I know what the fuck an Argent is. A dead bitch walking is what.

But why is it sparkling? Argent’s rock never glittered. It was a plain boulder that sat in the middle of a clearing. Now, a sheen shifts over it in purple and gold, moving like the sky in Rathe.

I hesitate, suspicion halting my movements.

I trust Zev. I always have, but just how deep does this Nightkin go into the psyche of my best friend?

Storing the thought for later, I stride toward the end with enough confidence to knock myself out.

The door swings open without a sound.

Marble stretches out where packed dirt used to be, white and gold veins catching light from somewhere I can’t see. Flowers bloom in neat rows along the perimeter, their petals thick and heavy with purples and blues that don’t exist in nature.

I scan the space. No crowd. No shouting. No betting circles forming around fighters who’d gut each other for a day’s rations. The silence presses against my ears like water.

Two figures move in the center of the courtyard, their blades catching light in synchronized patterns. They flow rather than fight, each movement precise. Graceful. A dance I’ve never seen on Exile.

The Nightkin stands at the edge of the marble, arms folded behind his back. Red eyes track the fighters without blinking.

One fighter twists, blade angling up. The other comes late. Steel slices through the air, and we all know it’s the strike of a promised kill. I wait for the crowd’s roar. The stampede of feet rushing to loot the body. The arguments over who won what bet. But that doesn’t come, because at the last second, the gifted pulls back and sheathes his blade.

He walks to the edge of the courtyard and falls in line with the others, silent and waiting.

The Nightkin’s head shifts, nodding toward the man who should be dead but isn’t, and my stomach tightens at the strangeness of it all.

It’s not that I wanted to see him die—I couldn’t care either way—but what the hell is this?