Page 107 of Devoured

A Delta can’t compel me.

“I’m sorry.” Before the dream can vanish, I look Sin in his new brown eyes, and I allow mine to flash. I allow my voice to deepen just as his did. “Don’t remember this, Sin. Don’t remember any of it.”

His jaw clenches, but his eyes lock on mine. He can’t look away. He can’t disobey a command by a higher-ranking werewolf. It’s the only way to move forward. If Sin forgets this, if I can implant new thoughts in his brain, we’ll still have a fighting chance at usurping his mother—and he did it to me first. He painted me so many lies.

“You don’t think Calix and I are together,” I rasp, continuing the compulsion. “You don’t doubt my loyalty to you. You think—”

“Don’t,” he snarls. “Don’t do this.”

“You think I love you.” I lift a hand to cup his cheek, forcing myself to watch how his lids flicker, and his eyes go vaguely unfocused, dreamlike, even as he grits his teeth to stop it. “And you love me,” I finish quietly.

I should feel guilty—I should—but I don’t. Instead, I think about Celeste, about text messages from a dead girl, and the dream unravels.

Finally, I jerk awake.

I am alone in my room, and Sin is nowhere to be found. So I reach under my bed, pull out a sleepless draught, and drink it in one gulp.

36

EVELYN

IT ENDS TONIGHT.

Portia’s job was to thieve. My job is to destroy. Cora, however, does not value possessions as most do. She does not value trinkets or gadgets or even magic itself. She only values herself. Her order.

Her miserable fucking throne.

The sun dims outside the windows. The torches cast wicked shadows along the walls as the Great Hall fills with raucous sound, and hundreds of her loathsome werewolves file inside for supper. Another banquet table has been added to accommodate the ever-growing numbers, but Cora will need another soon. She’ll need to carve into the other rooms down the corridor to expand the space.

Unless, of course, they all die before then.

What a goddamned joy that would be.

I don’t enter the Great Hall. Instead, I stride past it, toward the kitchen. Licking my teeth, the barest hint of my fangs, I maneuver around two young men hoisting platters of golden potatoes high above their heads and weave through a group of women carrying bread baskets, gravy boats, and lentil loaves. Some sort of vegetarian option requested by the crown prince. It smells loathsome and my nose scrunches, but Sinclair’s diet doesn’t matter tonight. What matters is that Vanessa, Calix, and I have compelled the waitstaff to keep the wine flowing. To keep every cup filled, and to forget they ever saw us.

Already, Cora’s wolves are a decibel louder than usual.

“It needs to build naturally,” Vanessa cautioned, “or Cora will suspect something is wrong.”

I don’t stop moving until I reach a rather docile teenage girl. On any other occasion, I wouldn’t talk to her if my life depended on it. But—well, now my life actually does depend on it. As does the loss of Cora’s.

Auburn hair pulled tight in a bun, brown eyes wide, the girl juggles two decanters of wine in her slender arms. The others knock into her without a care in the world, and she struggles to maintain her balance. She sucks a plump lip between her teeth, clutching the decanters tighter to her chest. She almost looks as if she might cry.

Revulsion shudders through me, but I repress it as much as I can. The girl sticks out like a sore thumb, and it’s easy—too easy—to push in front of her, slide a foot in her path, and send her sailing to the floor.

Arielle Jerez.

Calix’s little Mind Reader falls abruptly on her ass.

The decanters shatter on impact as wine explodes over her dusky-blue dress. She ekes out a quiet, pathetic moan. The other werewolves don’t stop to check on her; they continue with their duties as if she’s merely a piece of trash forgotten in the street. But I fix a smile on my face and clear my head of any remaining disdainful thoughts. Crouching in front of her—imagining sunshine and rainbows and freaking kittens as Nettie would have—I offer her a hand.

“Are you okay?” I ask—too saccharine. I sound forced. I think of bunnies instead. “Are you hurt?”

Arielle blinks down at herself, her arms splayed wide like a bird who just fell out of the sky. Her lip quivers. “I… I… spilled it.”

I can’t help smirking. “It’s okay. It happens more often than you’d think.”

She glances up at me. “Really?”