Page 47 of Scourged

Fueled by desperation, her aim was true. The sharp paring knife sliced a thin cut right over the line bisecting the dragon-shaped Mark. Ruby blood welled to the surface, beading around the black ink.

Before he could move, she lifted her bleeding palm and slammed it against his chest.

Andrian tensed, his body going rigid. They were both frozen, breathing heavily as they were suspended in time, breaths stirring the strands of the other’s hair. Mariah steeled herself, readying to descend into that ethereal region of light and darkness and magic that would bind their souls.

Until the seconds ticked by … and nothing happened.

Slowly—so, painstakingly slow—Andrian pulled back from her. Her hand was still pressed to his bleeding chest, their mingled blood running thin rivulets down his skin. With the gap between them widened, Mariah was able to glance at her hand, at her wrist. Her blood went cold as she realized her mistake.

The bond was missing the most important piece: her magic. Her eyes settled on the black and gold cuff encircling her wrist, searing the skin that was now covered in blood.

With defeat settling in her gut, she lifted her gaze from her shackles into his eyes.

They were so cold. So furious.

But not as cold and furious as she was expecting.

“Youbitch,” he spat, wrapping his hand around her wrist and pulling it from his chest. He shoved her back into the wall, his steps faltering as he stumbled away from her.

Mariah did not miss how his hands shook. How his face had drained of blood. He looked down at his chest, at the cut there and the stain of both their blood. His brow twisted, and he raised his attention back to her.

Mariah held herself utterly still, not even daring to breathe.

So many emotions flashed through his beautiful eyes. Confusion, shock, anger, horror, grief, rage. A cycling loop, a raging war in the ocean of violet blue.

He staggered back another step, lurching toward the open cell door. Bracing himself against it, he glared at her, chest still heaving.

“You … you will fuckingpayfor that.” His shaking hand pressed to his chest, smearing the red like war paint.

Mariah held her tongue, content to watch.

With another tremor, he stepped out of her cell. Fumbled for the keys in his pocket. Closed and locked the door before staggering down the hall, forgetting hisallumelamp on the damp hallway floor.

Mariah stood there in the pale gold light, watching the shadows flicker around her. She eventually moved forward, reaching a hand through the bars of her cell to flip off the lamp. She sighed in relief as she was plunged back into darkness.

She perched herself atop the cold-hard edge of her cot. Opening her right palm, she stared at the thin, slowly clotting cut.

In her left palm, she still clutched the golden paring knife. It dripped with both hers and Andrian’s blood.

Then, there was the foul black and gold stone ringing her wrists. She felt the block it had erected in her mind, made of the same material, an impassable barrier to her magic.

She needed that magic back. And to get that magic back, she needed those cuffs removed from her wrist.

A feeling she didn’t dare acknowledge tugged at her gut as she wiped and cleaned her palm as best she could. As she wiped the polished edge of the blade and stored it back between her cot and the wall of her cell. As she settled herself into bed, pulling the threadbare sheet around her shoulders in search of some semblance of comfort.

She didn’t name that feeling until she sank into a cold, heartless, dreamless slumber.

Defeat.

Chapter 18

When Andrian came back to consciousness, he stood in what must be his rooms.

He felt as if he was in a daze, no clue as to how he’d gotten there. Like he was half-asleep or perhaps still caught in a dream, dropped into the world with some semblance of a past, but no idea how he’d arrived.

He focused on the image in front of him. Another person—a man—stood there, shirt unbuttoned, messy black hair falling errantly into too-bright eyes as blood dripped down his chest.

Not a man. His reflection. He stood in front of a mirror.