Page 51 of Heart of Night

I’m not even going to think about the amount of the substance they need to keep my own magic at bay. Probably double the dosage Royad gets.

However, the drug isn’t enough to silence the power of the mark on my shoulder. It’s led me before when I was looking for Ayna, but whatever is happening now is a whole new dimension of anguish. Like a presence of its own, the tattoo keeps pulsing on my shoulder.

It doesn’t matter that Ayna is sitting right in front of me. This, I believe, is an ache that can only be soothed if I pull her into my arms in affirmation that she’s real and alive.

She looks worse than the last time I saw her, even if she’s wearing a golden gown that doesn’t fail to highlight her curves with its tight bodice and low neckline. Her hair cascades down her back in loose waves, only strands pulled back so they stay out of her face. Her face…

Her cheeks are flushed, her lips pink like berries reminding me of how incredible she tastes when I claim her mouth with mine. I want to sink my fingers into those ash-blonde strands framing her delicate features and feel the heat of her breath on my tongue. Ayna’s eyes shutter as she tries to read mine, so close that all I need to do is reach across the table and touch her soft skin and I’ll be a happy male. A ghost of a smile flashes across her mouth… That mouth. I remember vividly what it’s like to have it on mine, the bliss of every time her lips part for me. The way my entire body reacts to just the thought of kissing her. But the moment is fleeting with Katrijanov standing guard, hand within casual reach of his sword, and Erina informing the entire court that he intends to marry. My. Wife.

That fuck of a king is dead.

Rage is a breathing beast inside of me, not unfamiliar after being trapped in my half-Crow form for all of my life. But this sort of rage is sweeter. My blood boils beneath my skin, ready to spill as I exact vengeance. I scan her starved body to determine just how much I need to hurt the three creatures who have a hand in her torment. For every meal she’s missed, I’ll tear a gash into their bodies. For every time they’ve hurt her, I’ll make them suffer a month. For taking her from me, they will die.

Ephegos’s bonds are the only thing holding me back. Or are they?

Behind Ayna, Herinor shifts his weight, exposing the blade he holds hidden so the rest of this pathetic court can’t see that the king’s new fiancée isn’t here out of her own free will. He’s ready to kill her. Shaelak be damned. The very Crow who used to guard Ayna’s door is now ready to kill her.

I couldn’t care less about the apologetic look in his eyes. I’ve known he’s ruthless. That’s the entire reason I chose him as a backup for Royad when it came to guarding Ayna. But he made his choice. And he chose wrong.

“Aren’t you excited for us, Myron?” If Erina keeps pushing me, I might forget myself and call him for the monster he is. And I know what it means to be a monster, so I may judge.

The cheers and claps of the crowd swallow up our conversation as the rest of the court settles into their assigned places and starts devouring the butter-yellow cake servants are placing in front of us. Under different circumstances, I might have laughed at the colorful dish, so at odds with everything my life used to be. When I’d yearned for lightness, for color, all I had was a dark palace and black feathers. Now that I’m surrounded by a dizzying kaleidoscope of extravagant textiles and ridiculous pastel butterflies on half-spherical cakelets, all I can think of are the shadows that used to surround me—and how, between those shadows, I kept Ayna safe.

Here, I’m as helpless as the sugar butterflies sticking to the icing. With one bite, Erina could have my head. And I can’t lose my head when the rest of myself isn’t up to speed. A clear mind might be the only thing that could save us in here.

Ayna sits like a doll, frozen with her hand in Erina’s, a gesture, I’m certain, he chose to land another punch. Smart king. The magic-leveling drug is proof that he is a thinker and strategist—something even more dangerous than a man blindly grasping for power. Then, why does this surprise me? I remember the days when the Tavrasian brides were delivered at his father’s order, and he chose well, delivering political opponents or their daughters to my doorstep.

And before him, the old line of kings who didn’t quite agree with the idea of giving up women.

Something touches my boots, and I hit the bonds holding me in place as I instinctively want to lift my palm to ready a magical blow—or at least get my shield in place. Katrijanov’s fingers wrap around the hilt of his sword, but he doesn’t draw it—yet.

And I…

I hold my breath as I realize this isn’t an attack. Quite the opposite. I might be restrained, but Ayna isn’t, and that gentle nudge is her toes brushing over the leather of my boots right above my ankle.

I’m suddenly too hot and too cold, all pain forgotten. All but the searing sensation in my shoulder that threatens to break me apart if I don’t reach over the table, grab Ayna, and pull her into my lap right now. My gaze finds hers, and the defiance shimmering in the depths of fog and endless rivers gives me hope. She hasn’t spoken a word—be it because she doesn’t want to, isn’t allowed to, or magic keeps her from it—but I can see in her eyes that she is ready to fight. She might not pull her hand from Erina’s, playing along to protect me. But she is ready to fight when the time comes. And so am I.

If only I weren’t the one thing Erina knows to use to force her hand…

“When’s the wedding?” I ask her, schooling my features into cool disinterest while I savor the glide of her toes along my calf. Were we alone, I’d moan, allowing myself to acknowledge what this simple touch does to both my heart and my groin.

Something primal awakens inside of me at the sight of her—her lids fluttering as she fights to keep her expression as empty as mine, her mouth parting as she holds back words I’m sure are meant for no one in this room but me—and suddenly, there is only one thought reverberating through my body, my mind.

Mine.

Ayna is mine. Not Erina’s. Not anyone’s. But mine.

I’m fucked.

I have no idea how this happened, but I’m so fucked watching my mate’s hand clutched in the fingers of another man. And all I can think of is the hundreds of ways I want to worship her.

But first, we need to get out of here.

As I scan the room for potential exit routes for the hundredth time, my mind barely complies, too occupied with the well of emotions threatening to burst through the mask I’ve forced onto my features. I remember loving Ayna, remember wanting her. But this is a depth of feelings I wasn’t prepared for. I have no idea if Crows have mates. There haven’t been any female Crows since the curse, and the females who were forced into our claws were never around long enough for any bond to occur.

This is different.

There’s something in the way my entire body lights up at the sensation that screams of a connection going beyond attraction, affection, or even love. This is a bond that will, if not recognized, drive me insane because, deep in my black Crow soul, I know there is no escaping a mating bond.