Page 70 of Threaded

He would tear this entire castle down, brick by golden brick. And then once he’d found who was responsible, he’d tearthemapart, piece by piece.

Every rational thought had left his mind. Every wall he’d built was gone. He’d forgotten his hatred of her, the hatred he’d tried to convince himself he carried. He’d forgotten all she’d stolen from him, all she’d stolen from herself.

All he knew was that she was his, and someone had hurt her.

Andrian burst through her bedroom doors and froze in his tracks.

She was there, kneeling on the floor, dark hair falling in a curtain around her face. She wore a short, black nightgown, the thin material hiding very little of her smooth, tan skin—skin flecked and spotted with black blood. Her dragon-winged dagger was on the ground in front of her, its silver blade stained with the same ichor.

Andrian’s feet felt rooted to the ground, his mind reeling. Slowly, as if sensing his presence, Mariah lifted her head, her hair falling back as she turned and met his gaze. Her expression was empty, devoid of light and life, so unlike her that she looked almost like a stranger. He tensed, his hands clenched, before chancing a glance at her bed.

His heart dropped from his chest, and he swore, low and vicious.

The creature that lay in pieces on her bed was straight from nightmares, a demon pulled from the history books he’d spent too much of his childhood lost in. It couldn’t—shouldn’t—exist. Those creatures were myths, beings that hadn’t been seen in the world for thousands of years. He reached on instinct for his dagger, until Mariah spoke and froze his movement, her voice so hollow, so cold, so foreign.

“It’s dead.”

Andrian wrenched his stare back to her. She was still looking up at him, a broken shell of herself. And when he saw the rawness in those forest-green eyes, the pain and fear he could see beginning to creep in past the numbness etched in her features, something inside him cracked.

The urge was sudden. To go to her, to sit beside her. To pull her into his arms, to hold her close, to stroke that soft skin and breathe in that jasmine and cedarwood scent. It washed over him like a wave, a torrent pushing him to do anything, tobeanything, she needed in that moment. He wavered on his feet, his limbs itching to move.

Until a thundering boom from the entry to her suite snapped the spell, and the rest of Mariah’s Armature, led by Sebastian, came charging into her room. Andrian blinked, confusion rattling in his chest, and he watched Sebastian burst past him and sink to his knees beside Mariah.

Fury, sudden and hot, raced through him.

That should be me.

He yanked his gaze from them, looking back at the mangled creature in her bed. He forced himself to redirect that anger towards the hideous creature sprawled in pieces across her snow-white comforter; after all, it wasn’t Sebastian’s fault he’d been too weak to take that final step.

It wasn’t as if Mariah would even want him to be the one to comfort her, anyway. Twisted self-loathing curled into his gut, pulling taut.

He could hear Sebastian’s gentle crooning. “Mariah. Are you hurt?”

“No.” Her voice was still so cold, so flat. Andrian’s heart warped again in his chest.

“It was an Uroboros.” His words surprised him. He felt everyone’s attention turn to him, and then to the creature in the bed. Fists tightened, gazes hardened, temper’s heated as they stared at the thing that had come far too close to killing their queen.

“It’s dead.” That same empty voice repeated once more.

Andrian still couldn’t bring himself to look at her. His attention remained focused on the Uroboros, at the impossibility of the attack.

He remembered, just for a moment, the conversation he’d overheard between his father and Shawth. He knew, better than most, the ruthlessness of the Royals … but nothing they’d said had hinted at threats to Mariah.

Besides, even they weren’t stupid enough to attempt an assassination of the Goddess’s Chosen.

There was more movement in the room, and Andrian watched from where he remained rooted in the doorway to Mariah’s bedroom as Drystan pushed forward, slipping into the bathroom just beyond the room. He grabbed a clean towel, dampened it under the sink, and then returned to the bedroom, kneeling beside her opposite Sebastian.

“Mariah,” said Drystan, his voice soft. Andrian pushed down every urge he had to move, every emotion raging in his gut. He forced his mind to go blank, unfeeling, lifeless as he watched the golden-haired man press the damp towel into Mariah’s blood-splattered hands. “Take it. Go into the bathroom. Focus on what you can control.”

Mariah gazed at Drystan blankly for a moment, as if not seeing him. She nodded once, absently, before rising to her feet, a puppet on a string. Andrian didn’t even blink, his eyes tracking her as she padded into the bathroom.

He could no longer see her, but his attention remained fixated. Around him, his fellow Armature moved quietly and efficiently, peeling the sheets from her bed and wrapping the corpse of the Uroboros within. But he didn’t notice them as they worked, didn’t care to join them. His entire being was focused on the rustling sounds that came from the bathroom, the sound of the faucet running, the brush of cloth against skin and soft, padding steps.

When she reemerged, no longer speckled in foul black blood, and changed into a different—but equally distracting—black nightgown, some of the light had returned to her eyes. Her skin was no longer sickly, color again starting to warm her cheeks. She stood there, at the threshold between her bedroom and bathroom, and watched Feran and Matheo as they carried her bulky, soiled bedding from the room.

Distantly, Andrian hoped they burned it.

It was Sebastian’s voice that broke the tense silence settling over the room. He cleared his throat softly.

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