Page 156 of Devoured

I jerk my chin violently in her direction, where she appears through a gap in the crowd to rip a claw through Valja’s side. My blood boils when I spot her. Rage eviscerates me from the inside out. “Leave her to me.”

Calix stares at me for a breath. “Are you sure?”

“It ends now, Calix.” With one last, aching glance, I commit each line of Sin’s face to memory. I immortalize him in my mind, where he will stay young and happy forever. And then, unleashing my claws and fangs, I abandon him there.

The golden prince. The golden traitor.

My first love.

I abandon him, and I sprint toward Cora. The woman who really killed him. The woman who doomed him. Because of her, Sin never had a chance.

And I am going to make her pay.

Without a second of hesitation, I slam into her, throwing us both to the grass.

She recovers fast, leaping to her feet in the next second before slashing out at my chest with her own talons. I ignore the burning pain. I ignore the warmth of blood on my skin.

My blood. Sin’s blood.

Instead, I throw a heavy fist into her ribs—the air whooshes out of her in a single, chilling growl—and another fist into her jaw. I hit her as many times as possible. With every punch, I think of Sin. I think of Calix and Evie and Portia and all the people we’ve lost.

Even as she cuts me, slices me, my hands move in a blur. She absorbs the pain, staggering on her feet but not collapsing. Not breaking. Not yet. Her blood sprays on the grass, on my lips. Her nose breaks. Her ribs crack.

She slices four sharp nails through my cheek, and for a breathless second everything tilts: the grass, the castle, even the corpses surrounding us. I taste copper on my tongue, but I can’t tell if it’s my blood or hers or her son’s. Sin. I rake my claws across her bicep. Oh god, Sin. I’m crying again, but I do not slow.

She hisses, lunging for my throat with her fangs.

More gunshots tear through the air, and humans and werewolves are shouting, colliding, wails and pleas and blood braided together in a snarl of brutality. If Cora dies, we can end all the madness.

If she dies, we might be able to one day move on.

Ducking away from her grasp, I drive my foot into her calf. Hard. She buckles instantly, collapsing to her knees with a savage thud. That strange charcoal gaze—glistening almost a deep, dark navy now—widens further than ever before. But she doesn’t give up.

She never does.

Cora lashes out and clenches a hand around my tiara, dragging me to the ground beside her. She pins a claw against my throat, a grin splitting her face open as she pants hard, eyes bright with triumph. “You really thought a pathetic Bitten werewolf could defeat me? I was born from legacies, Vanessa. I have royal blood flowing in my veins. You are nothing. Nothing,” she spits.

“You—killed—your own—son.” And I hate her.

I hate her so much I can hardly speak, my teeth lengthening, snapping at her hand. She laughs in response.

“You think I care?” Her fingers tighten on my throat, and she shakes me roughly, as if—even now—determined to make me understand. But I can’t understand. I will never understand how little life means to her. “I told you, caring is a weakness, Vanessa. Caring is exactly why you will never beat me.” She growls, low and vicious, and stares directly in my eyes as she speaks the truth: “I’m glad he is dead. I’m glad it’s just us.”

She stares, and she stares. And I stare right back.

I stare deeply.

Just like that, my rage and pain and grief explode against the faded gray of her memories. They crash over me in waves.

The charcoal of a girl wandering the halls of her castle. The charcoal of a girl holding hands with her sister, sneaking into kitchens, feeding the mice breadcrumbs when no one looks.

The charcoal of a girl trapped in her own dreams.

The charcoal of a young woman sneaking out of the castle to sit by the water’s edge. The charcoal of midnight whispers, of stolen kisses, of promises sealed with blood. And then—a tendril of blue. A tendril of navy amidst the gray of exile.

A male voice saying, You will never be alone.

Cora clamps down on my windpipe then. “Don’t you dare.” Tendons begin to snap in my neck, little by little, as pressure builds in my skull. My vision shatters. Her memories flicker out as even the sky above me vanishes. I force my claws off the grass—to stab her, to rip out her heart—but an agonizing spasm seizes my hand, and my fingers fumble. My claws fall numb in the dirt.