Page 48 of Claimed

Something on your mind, cacciatrice? I ask only into her mind.

Oh, nothing major. Just the tiny, pesky curiosity of how many humans have been thrown in here before Kessler and whether your dungeon has a loyalty card.

Is she imagining herself in here? Calculating exits? Weapons? How long she could last without light, control or the mouth she uses as armour, if she insists on shielding whatever truth she needs to confess from me?

Does she wonder whether I would put her here if the truth in her blood proved dangerous enough? The thought sickens me because she is not wrong to fear it. I am capable of cages. I have built empires from them.

Do not betray me, and you will never find out.

I feel her retreat, and it bothers me because fuck it, I want her secrets in the open, yes, but I also want her trust. Which could possibly make me the greatest fool of the millennia.

We are coming to a crossroads, you and I…

She turns away sharply at the soft threat I do not bother to hide. And I permit myself one more beat to linger on her breathtaking profile before I face Kessler.

‘Confess everything now, or spend what remains of your life in this room. Either way you will die here tonight. How quickly is the choice I’m offering.’

His composure collapses and he stumbles forward until Malachi’s boot stops him. Tears, sweat and snot ruin the expensive face he wore at his gala. One of the Twelve makes a sound of disgust.

Eira’s voice cuts in. ‘Don’t scoff, bubba. You were once human too.’

Their bewilderment rolls through the bloodline. I have never allowed insolence from another being, human or otherwise. Much less from a human woman they believe is beneath me.

But even before tonight, I knew… sensed that Eira Cross was more. Much more powerful than the courage and whatever lethal magic that runs through her veins.

For now, I ignore it. And them. Although I sense, too, that remaining deliberately oblivious of both situations will become untenable sooner than I would prefer.

Because even now, a curious lagging prowls through my veins, pounding an ominous beat I cannot smother.

Kessler sobs. ‘Vale promised. He promised that if I delivered the hunter, he would turn me. He said I was wasted as a mortal. That if you were hoarding the gift then he could make me – make me—’ He breaks on the last words.

I tilt my head. ‘You wanted immortality badly enough to sell a woman to monsters.’

‘Can you blame me?’ he shouts. ‘Fifteen years, I’ve begged like a dog.’

‘And you were refused. Repeatedly.’

‘After I proved myself, gave millions. Granted you classified intel and access. What was I supposed to do? You and your Court rejected me every time for no reason.’

‘Even if I were inclined to grant you anything, you violated a basic law. No one from another territory is permitted to turn a mortal living under Moretti protection.’ I pause. ‘And you have been travelling to Chicago. Why?’

Kessler flinches. His mouth opens, closes. Opens again. Then a thin, strangled sound comes out before blood pours from his nose. And this is not a benign trickle.

It is a flood.

His hands fly up as red runs over his mouth and chin. Both ears begin to bleed next, dark and profuse, as if something inside his skull has been crushed.

Eira inhales sharply.

My Twelve go still, recognising the signature at once: a mind-gag, an occult kill-switch buried in thought. Navarro’s circle favours them when they want a mouth to open only once.

Kessler tries again but the punishment is immediate.

Chest buckling, his eyes roll back. He hits the stone with a wet, final sound and dies without me lifting a finger.

Leaving only confirmation. Dorian’s men attacked me. And Navarro’s methods silenced the witness. More than one blood brother circles my weakness.

‘Well,’ Eira says quietly, ‘this eww has nothing nice about it.’