Page 69 of Shattered Jewel
The images jolt me awake every time, and it’s only when Sasha’s soft snores fill the room that I finally allow myself to drift into sleep, clinging onto her steady rhythm like a lifeline out of a nightmare.
A sharp gasp tears from my throat as the visions splinter into the darkness, and I’m suddenly wide awake again, heart thundering against my ribs. The room feels colder than it should, and a prickling sensation creeps up my spine. I strain my ears, trying to discern any sound over Sasha’s snores, but there’s nothing—just the deafening silence of an empty house.
I sit up, the necklace’s constant chill an alarm to my fevered skin. The air seems to hold its breath, waiting. And then, outside the window, a faint scrape... like the whisper of leaves.
Or something worse trailing against the glass.
Holding my breath, I peel out of bed and edge toward the curtains, peering into the thick fog sifting through the yard and bathing everything in an afterstorm gray.
The silhouette is unexpected—a shape that shouldn’t be there, motionless and imposing. My heart lurches as it shifts, a lurch of movement that’s unmistakably deliberate. Whoever—or whatever—is out there knows I’m watching.
Fear roots me to the spot; curiosity urges me closer.
With a trembling hand, I draw back the curtain just a sliver more and come face-to-face with the reflective gaze of silver-gray eyes that seem brighter than the storm’s colorless aftermath. Even more stark is the slash of red across his cheek.
“Axe?” I mouth in question.
I press my fingers to the cold windowpane.
The figure recedes into the mist as if he were never there at all, leaving me with a rising tide of alarm and questions.
What happened? Why is he here? Is he hurt? Is he warning me away?
Clutching at the broken Heart beneath my shirt, I know I’ll never get to sleep now.
Chapter 18
Cav
THE PUPPETEER
Ipeel back the edges of the bandage, wincing as it pulls away from my skin, a sticky mix of dried blood and sweat fighting to keep it attached.
The sting is sharp, hot needles dancing across my flesh, but it doesn’t compare to the burn of the symbol etched into me.
In the mirror’s unforgiving light, it glares back—a jagged circular mark with multiple slashes in the center that seems to mock me.
I mutter obscenities, tracing the raised skin, each line a brutal stroke of the Sovereign’s artistry. It’s more than a wound. It’s a brand, a sign of their ownership, binding me to their will.
The door behind me crashes open with violent force. My body snaps tight, and I wince at the angry complaint from my mutilated chest, ready for another round of torment. But it isn’t necessary. Axe’s form fills the doorway, and my muscles slowly unfurl.
Even so … something’s wrong.
Axe’s face. Fuck, his face is a map of fresh havoc.
Purple bruises bloom like sinister flowers across his skin, and a vicious cut, raw and glaringly red, splits from the center of his left eyebrow and down his cheek. His left eye is nearly swollen shut, the laceration bisecting his eyebrow and cheek still weeping blood.
In the seconds it takes me to assess him, I realize I’m gaping.
The Sovereigns have never been this ostentatious, never this bold. That scar will be a flag, a declaration for all to see.
Axe steps into the room, his movements stiff, each step an effort. He shuts the door behind him.
He eventually turns back to me, and I note the pain there, the fury.
“What happened?”
My voice, usually a weapon honed by years of scheming, now betrays a hint of something dangerously akin to concern.