Page 55 of The Salvation

Reaver plays at power. He never fucking earns it.

“I wish Kyan were here,” she confesses, chewing on her lower lip, a raw ache showing in her eyes.

“I only hope he will return before you enter the Hollows.”

She eyes the silk robe I offer her, parting her lips and hesitating before surrendering to take it. Reluctantly, she pulls it over her shoulders. Ever since Mayce’s Court, she’s grown more accustomed to sleeping in nothing but her skin with two bodies hemming her in. Not to mention how much she loves exhibitionism. After a lifetime of suppressing herself and hiding her scars, she gets off from the arousal and cherishes the thrill of showing herself. Always such pride in those scars and the tattooed tapestry on her skin.

“You don’t think I’ll survive, do you?”

I seize her wrist, dragging a gasp from her throat before pulling her to me. Her soft breasts plump against my chest since she hasn’t clasped the robe yet. Fucking love those small tits, pretty and pert, those dark rouge nipples hardening if my shadow so much as crosses her.

The second she hurled her pride at me after I’d mocked those little dove breasts, her light and heat cracked through my darkness. And when she took everything I gave her in the crypt and rose to challenge me, to conquer my scars with hers—and every other moment with her—she’s become brighter and more alive than the moon breaking through an eclipse. Lighting up my blackest nights with her half-soul, stronger and more beautiful than our divine ones could ever be.

I look down at her, cup her chin, and lower my lips to hers, stopping a breath short. “I know you’ll survive, Quintessa. You’ll enter the Hollows. And you’ll return with the three items. And once you do, if Malachor rises and we do not find a way to break the blood tie, everything will be lost.”

“I have you, Merikh. All four of you. He can’t?—”

I crush my mouth to hers. She doesn’t need this. Her body is too worn and weak. If she is to survive tomorrow night’s Blood Games, she needs to rest. So, I channel my power like a currentinto her, rushing the blood to her head until she passes out in my arms.

Once I finish laying her in the bed, I indulge myself, sinking my teeth into those tits I love, smirking at how her back arches even in her sleep. I don’t take prisoners. I simply leave marks for her to find tomorrow. Ones she will look at, shake her head with a smile, and give an airy laugh.

I rise, noticing movement on the opposite end of the room. Rolling my eyes, I say to the pup, “Well? Come on, then.” I finish with a whistle, and Jinx scurries for the bed, pouncing, his tails wagging behind him. His scaly friend staggers with his stumpy wing before slithering up the bed to join him. When Jinx bares his teeth with a possessive growl, Happ backs away from her chest and curls up at her feet instead. I chuff a laugh as the fox circles the sheets next to her before snuggling against her side with his snout on her shoulder.

Flexing my fingers at the unfamiliar emotion stirring inside me, I take a moment to scratch his ears, marveling at how he purrs, fur relaxed. Makes no sense when I’m a predator.

“You’re going with her,” I mention, and Jinx’s ears prick up. “Yes, you little ‘tween traveler. We both know you can go. So, you will. Don’t let her lose hope. Or that natural curiosity and free spirit. They serve her well.” He’s known that from the first moment that she scooped him up in his arms...and threw a monumental tantrum at the very thought of us taking him from her.

Patting his head, I depart from the room. If they don’t know already, I need to inform the Founders of Reaver’s plans to bring back the Blood Games. Considering their loyalty to me and not to Malachor, he may very well involve them.

The shattered fragments of the coffin in the adjoining room have me pausing. I sigh deeply as the recognition of what Idestroyed settles upon me. Despite my rationalization of how it’s just a coffin, I know that’s a lie.

It wasthecoffin.

“Marvelous, is it not?”Malachor says, his voice like a chilling symphony of darkness.

Every nerve in my human body trembles as he slides a hand along the coffin, tapping his finger occasionally. He’s rendered me silent, but he needs no response. My very blood congealing in my veins is enough.

“I had it crafted especially for you, my Merry Howle—ever since the first time you stole from me. It’s taken months, so you can imagine how enthusiastic I was when my master artisans informed me it was finished. Especially considering your recent capture.”

I wince, chastising myself for my weakness, which only prompts Malachor to simper. When he captured me, the God of Blood locked me in his dungeons. I assumed he’d throw away the key and have me finish my days withering away in the crippling embrace of isolation and darkness. Something deep within me recognizes how it would be a far better fate than whatever else he’s planned.

“I look forward to your performance in my Blood Games tonight, Howle. I’ll look forward to it even more if you survive.”

I shouldn’t have survived. Sometimes, I consider what would have happened if I’d surrendered to the slaughter that night. Or any night following. Surviving the Blood Games didn't give me the sole motive to keep going. It was what happened after them.

“I want you to understand Merikh...what an honor this is—foryou,” Malachor says after his lackeys have chained me to the coffin. Shirtless. The blood on my chest trickles onto the surface from several open wounds from the fangs and claws of the vampire I was pitted against. I spit, splattering more blood in contempt of the God of Blood circling the casket.

He clasps his long bony fingers, so white, they remind me of lilies. It should be impossible with how much blood has stained his hands. Revulsion sours my tongue as he clicks his claws along the coffin before me.

If he wasn’t a vampire, his sunken cheeks would seem sickly and ashen. But his cheekbones, sharper than uncut diamonds, the velvety shadows around his eyes with their carmine pupils, and his dignified bearing all testify to his otherworldly status. Especially when he dresses it up with his black lace finger gloves and dark hooded robe atop his white hair. It cascades like a snowfall down his chest. Branded into his forehead is a black obsidian cross. Much like the crimson ones adorning his robes. The height of irony, apart from how Malachor seeks subjects to worship him.

“Considering all your times of thievery, I could have arranged a simple decapitation in my court. Clean. Effective. A worthy message to any humans who would steal from me.”

I wish I could drown out his words, but his voice is like liquid darkness pulling me under to plague all my thoughts—the alluring prick.

Nothing I regret more than my last attempt to steal from him. Growing up on the streets with a mother abandoned by my unknown father when she was still carrying his bastard baby left us with little options in the world of vampires. With no noble blood, we would not be welcome in Malachor’s Court. Not that humans fare much better here than the surface. Not since the rise of the bitten clans.

My chest darkens at a thousand memories of coming home as a boy to my mother trading her flesh and blood for mere meals and the meager shanty where we lived in the swamp city of refugees. My heart gives out because she was beautiful enough to live in the Court of Blood...or a bitten vampire mansion. But after horror stories of predatory vampires feeding on children, I knew she gave it up for me.

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