Page 134 of Anathema

“Yes. But it’s rather hard to describe. I felt like …”

“Yes?”

My cheeks burned, but the concerned face he’d made moments ago had me feeling like I should say something. “I felt like it was seducing me. The flame itself was pulling me toward something.”

Dolion’s eyes widened, and he stroked his beard. “I’m afraid I’m a bit out of my league on that one. Perhaps I’ll observe a bit closer next time.”

“Out of curiosity, what would it mean if I were to control his power?”

“It would make your newest glyph quite dangerous. And should the magehood become privy, they would surely see you destroyed for it.”

Lips flat, I nodded. “Perfect.”

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

ZEVANDER

Zevander stared down at his trembling hands, trying to wrap his head around what, in godsblood, had happened just then. It wasn’t the first time he’d channeled his power–when Rykaia was first coming into her own blood magic, he’d sometimes used the technique to help her, as well. It was common practice, and for the most part, harmless.

Never in his life had he felt such a loss of control. As if she were commanding the flame herself.

And never had he felt the hum of excitement vibrating through his blood, as he had in that training room. Every nerve ending had sprung to life, desperate and eager to connect with every inch of her skin. The very thought of it, of her, had him breaking into a sweat all over again. Whatever poisonous spell she’d cast over him had stirred a dark and dangerous craving for more.

At the same time, it enraged him.

Zevander had spent centuries learning to control the flame. Had trained for hours upon hours, forcing himself to command the very part of him he feared. And there, a mortal with no formal training, had commandeered it as if it had always been a part of her.

As if it longed to be inside of her.

An unrelenting ache throbbed in his groin, and Zevander clutched the arms of the chair, teeth grinding. He refused to fuck his hand at the visual of what her tight body would feel like wrapped around his starving cock.

Instead, he reached for his glass of liquor, swallowed back a long swill, and forced himself to imagine something else. Something that didn’t have every muscle in his body locked and ready to tear into something.

At a knock on the door, Zevander shook his mind free of those thoughts.

“Yes,” he said, and Ravezio stepped inside.

“We’ve got him. In the dungeons.”

The flammellian.

Finally, a means to exercise the pent-up aggression that had him desperate to rip something to shreds.

Better the man who’d harmed his sister.

Zevander stood flanked by Ravezio and Torryn, a flaming sconce in hand as he stared through the bars of the cell, beyond which a pale-skinned man crouched in the corner. Unlike the furnished cells, where Dolion and Maevyth had slept, this one held no bed, no windows and no light. “Where did you find him?”

“Asked around. Found him holed up in one of the tunnels beneath Costelwick.” Torryn tapped his finger on the hilt of his blade, his jaw clenched. “It’s only out of respect for you that I didn’t kill him on the spot.”

The emaciated bastard wore a smug grin that Zevander wanted more than anything to rip clean off his face. Hard to believe Rykaia would’ve had anything to do with him, as gaunt and unkempt as he appeared to be, but perhaps she’d been too far gone on whatever elixirs she’d taken to care. “And the flammapul?”

Ravezio handed off an ampoule of red liquid, the tiny floating bubbles that appeared as negative space confirming its contents.

“Who are you?” Zevander tucked the ampoule away into the pocket of his tunic.

The stranger tipped his chin up, the smile never leaving his face. “I could’ve killed her, if I wanted. But I didn’t.”

“If you think I’ll spare you for that, you’ve overestimated my merciful nature.”

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