Page 92 of Of Wind and Terror

Blaze once again translates.

“It would make sense,” Blaze muses after a pause. “It seems as if the mark was trying to protect you.”

I shudder. “By having Mitchia brutally kill herself in front of me? Gaia, the pain she must’ve felt…”

“She was a monster, little beast,” Blaze cuts in, his voice firm. “You have to remember that.”

“She wanted to hurt you because she thought you were bad,” I say.

And she wasn’t wrong. Treyton’s confession alone is proof of that.

“We are bad,” Aleksander quips. “We never said we weren’t.”

His shoulder brushes mine, shooting off sparks in my belly.

“I want this mark off of me.”

Gaia, how does it even work? Does it react to my emotions? Is Treyton in danger? I’m furious with him, yes, but I don’t want him dead. I don’t want any of them dead, despite my turbulent emotions. And what if it starts attacking innocent fae? The prospect sends panic spiraling through me.

“We will,” Blaze assures me, his voice soft. “If I had to guess, I would say we’re about halfway through the Forest. By tomorrow, we should reach my kingdom. It’ll be a short walk to my castle. Shorter still if we can procure a riding animal. We’ll be able to regroup and plan for the remainder of our journey.”

My hands tremble when I sign my next words. “I’m scared.”

Blaze leans down to press a kiss to my temple. “So am I, little beast. So am I.”

35

KASSANDRA

When I wake up in Draven’s bedroom—with its black drapes and black bedspread and black tapestry—I don’t feel confused or even scared.

No, I’m furious.

It burns like magma through my veins, white-hot and blistering, scalding everything it comes into contact with. My skin practically fizzles from the force of my anger. I can almost imagine it’s radiating off of me in palpable waves.

I don’t know who’s more surprised—me or Draven—when I jump from the bed and storm forward until I’m directly in front of him. I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact, which only seems to exacerbate his amusement. A tiny smirk dances on the corners of his lips.

My rage continues to grow and grow and grow, a snowball effect, tumbling down a steep hill.

“Is something the matter, little bird?” He cocks his head to the side, a decidedly predatory movement.

His cheeks are pale in the darkness of the room, causing his scar to stand out in stark contrast. His midnight-colored hair falls haphazardly over his forehead.

“Take these cuffs off of me,” I sign with a scowl, nodding towards the metal manacles around both of my wrists, securing my gloves in place. “Now.”

His smile only broadens, revealing two rows of perfectly white teeth. “Now why would I do that? After all, you killed my father the last time you were able to use your gifts.”

A tendril of guilt and shame coils around my heart and squeezes tight. I did kill his father, but that was only because I had no other choice. It was an accident. I didn’t mean to. But…

Not meaning to doesn’t change the fact that it happened.

Maybe I’m not so different from Treyton after all. We both have blood on our hands, staining our fingers a deep, vibrant red.

I search Draven’s face carefully, studying his reactions, but he just continues to smile at me. An imperious, mischievous smirk that makes his silver eyes sparkle. There’s not a hint of hurt or even anger on his face.

I consider his previous words—Now why would I do that?—and answer with the only word I can think of.

“Because.”

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