Page 148 of Mate of a Monster

“Oh,” she whispers hoarsely, eyes flicking between us with something like admiration. “So he did it after all.”

My grip tightens instinctively.

“Did what,” I snarl. “Who?”

“All I had to do,” Arabella murmurs faintly, “was mention it to Mommy. Tell her what would happen if the island was fed properly.”

My stomach drops.

Arabella’s smile widens despite the blood filling her throat.

“I knew your precious king would figure it out eventually,” she says softly. “He is the smart one, after all.” Her eyes burn with triumph. “Or should I say was.”

Haide’s hand covers mine and she yanks it back, helping me rip the bitch’s heart clean out of her chest.

The thin thread that tied me to her snaps with it.

And just like the Nightkin said, all that is left…is her.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Legend

I’m standing halfway across the throne room when the sound of stone scraping against marble splits the air. The moment it registers, something in my chest snaps hard enough that the Nightkin growls in warning.

The guards freeze. One of them still has both hands on the carved edge of the first in the long line of thrones.

“What,” I snap, “are you doing?”

The guard swallows. “My King, the coordinator suggested—”

“Suggested what?”

The guard glances toward the others like he’s hoping someone will rescue him from finishing the sentence.

No one does.

“That the throne be moved,” he says finally, voice cautious, aware he’s speaking to a beast that might bite if he moves too quickly.

My vision goes white.

“You mean,” I say slowly, my voice rising with every word, “that someone decided the throne of a King of Rathe should be removed just seven suns after his death?”

The guard opens his mouth, but the Nightkin moves faster than he does.

The darkness inside me surges, magic flooding the space so fiercely the torches along the walls snuff out.

“Legend,” Knight speaks my name like a warning.

Too late for that.

“Do not,” I step forward, my boots echoing across the stone floor while the guards stumble back from the thrones, the scent of their fear thick in the air, “touch that throne again.”

They immediately let go, their chins dropped flat against their chests in the same breath. Not that they’re breathing.

I stop at the base of the steps leading to the dais, my pulse roaring in my ears, but my feet won’t let me go any closer. They’re fucking frozen in place.

The throne room is massive, tall pillars stretching toward a vaulted ceiling that once held banners from every Gifted Game of Rathe, but right now it feels suffocatingly small.