Page 29 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

He grins, a finger teasing her jawline until it presses firm into her lips. “Tell me more. About those feelings.”

Gods. Myla knows she must convince him. That vial, acquiring it at all costs, must come before her pride. She grips the collar of his leather vest and turns him around, pushing him backwards until he sits stunned in her throne. A dark gleam circles his pupils as though his very life source is being fueled. Of course, it is. Lust, longing, and praise are his favorite meals. I will be his fucking main course if I need to.

Myla moves nimbly until she straddles him where he sits, his chin level with her breasts and his breathing suddenly shifting dangerously close to anticipation. “I can not sleep,” she whispers, holding his head still by a handful of thick hair, her other hand tracing promises into his throat before slowly moving lower toward his belt. “I wake up wondering where you are, willing you to appear next to me. The seconds you are away from me, I feel like I can not breathe, like I never drew a full breath until you arrived here.” She pauses, allowing the words to fill every crevice where his ego is starving, lapping up her attention like a pathetic dog. Seeing him here, so helpless beneath her grip makes Myla wonder what exactly she has been so afraid of.

“So, I feel everything. I feel the places you are, and I feel the places you are not. I feel the places I wish you were. And I can only wonder if those are feelings you gave me. I long to feel them and know they are mine.” Her lips meet his, teeth grazing his plump bottom lip and allowing his tongue to explore her mouth, slowly and lazily. His lips move from hers to her chin and downward to her collarbone where he pelts warm, venomous kisses. A thrill surges through her body, an alarming sensation which she knows is her nervous system coordinated with his. Myla tries desperately to separate her mental response from the physical, allowing him to be convince. If she can not own her body, she will try to own her mind.

This endeavor grows increasingly challenging as his hands trail down her, finding a hold on the back of her thighs and moving her body against the hardening in his pants. Myla lets out a subtle moan, one that is not lost on the devil beneath her.

“Good, my Ruthless Queen,” he coos in her ear, praising her response, words which exhilarate and evoke a satisfied melt from her. “I wonder what you would say if I took you to bed now.” He moves a hand to her exposed thigh, inching upwards, closer and closer to that sacred space which feels hungry for his touch.

“Vesperian,” she moans into his neck, angry at herself for feeling so wildly out of control and so deeply intoxicated by the monster who murdered her husband. Yet, the euphoric sensations pulsating through her body begs her not to stop his conquest. His fingers nearly graze their target, prompting a desperate gasp when the door of the throne room slams shut.

Myla flinches, something jolting her from the spell, and she stands, blue eyes swelling with regret when they fall upon the furious gaze of Bryar.

Foolish. She chides herself. A queen’s guard is rarely far away; of course he was going to find her. Myla feels a shiver of guilt wash over her.

“Bryar—”

“Bryar?” The Blood Stealer stands, his eyes narrowing in on the space between the captain and his queen. Myla fears the raw energy flowing there may be detectable by Vesperian, and she quickly corrects her tone.

“Captain Monroe, you approach me unannounced?”

Bryar’s jaw grinds as though he is chewing his words before spitting them out. “Is that not my job, Your Grace? To protect you?”

Vesperian laughs, a threatening hand landing on Myla’s shoulder. “Ah, the overzealous guard who would not let me in your room.”

Myla attempts to match his casual demeanor, laughing mockingly with him. “It is. Troublesome, really. He has nightmares, I hear, from when you killed that idiot I called a husband.” Shame infiltrates her very essence, and averting her gaze, she silently asks Bryar’s forgiveness. If only he already knew what was concealed in Vesperian’s pocket.

Judging by the shadowed look on his face, Bryar is teetering on the edge of questioning the ruse himself. Is that not what she wanted? For everyone to believe she had surrendered to the power of Vesperian? If he is convinced, should not the Blood Stealer himself be?

But he is not.

Suspicion breeds rapidly as the Blood Stealer takes stock of it all; the way the tiles crack beneath Bryar’s heating feet and the inferno boiling at his fingertips, which cause the handle of his axe to grow red-hot. The weapon wilts like a flower before Bryar even seems to notice the way his rage builds upon itself, bringing destruction of everything, including her plan.

Vesperian’s angry, snake like eyes dart to her. Sweet features washed away in a rush of pale, and the darkness she had exuded replaced with what truly lies beneath: fear.

So, he feasts.

“Tell me, Myla . . . my stupid queen. Did you intend on marrying me and then letting that vermin between your legs behind my back?”

Myla trembles and attempts a recovery. “Stop with your nonsense, Vesperian. Your jealousy is ruining my mood.” If he was not already angry, her tone may have been convincing, but a black wraith begins to form at his hands, giving Myla the sick feeling she has just failed. He allows the otherworldly creature to slither around his hand and wrist like a pet snake, and something about his being shifts from devilishly handsome to absolutely terrifying.

Here is the creature who slaughtered Caius.

His eyes burn a deep crimson, a blood thirst amassing deep within as he anticipates his next kill.

“If my suspicion is nonsense as you say,” he goads, “then prove it, and I will give you this.” He pulls the vial from his pocket, its brilliant blue catching in the daylight through the tall arched windows in a vast contrast to the black swirling at its base. It shines like a beacon calling to her. “The captain’s life for your cure.” Vesperian presents his ultimatum like a prize, his ivory teeth flashing a smile coated in mockery. The wraith grows larger, a swirling demon summoned by the Blood Stealer to cut Bryar’s throat, just as it cut Caius’s. Pressure constricts Myla’s throat as if an invisible being grapples at her, silencing any protests.

Realization washes over Bryar, and he wears an odd look. Defeat? No. Resolve. Flames engulf his fists as he stands partially crouched, ready to meet the Gods in a shower of black and flames.

He will sacrifice himself for my cure . . .

“Killing you myself would be too quick,” Vesperian hums as he seats himself in Myla’s throne instead of his own. Margot and Matteo sit on either side of him, panting hungrily. No doubt anticipating their next meals. “I am in the mood for a show.” He pats his lap, summoning Myla to sit. A test. “Come, my Ruthless Queen. We shall watch my loyal men battle yours. An experiment. Who is stronger?” It is not an experiment. It is a threat.

Myla does as he instructs, the pounding in her chest dulling every other sense and she watches as six of Vesperian’s soldiers lull from the shadows.

He can kill them easily . . . if he wants to, she comforts herself, watching Bryar straighten and rolls his shoulders, ready to slaughter. He holds a borrowed sword now, taken from one of his men, his axe lays distorted on the ground next to him.