Page 61 of The Salvation

The irony. She is my anesthetic. We are her stimulants, her adrenaline.

More blood. More punishment. More souls snuffed from existence by my hand.

Quintessa’s screams only pour fire into my scars. My little dove never tears her eyes off mine—just as she did when Reaver whipped her. Gods, that girl has the heart of a phoenix. I do not have her strength. I turn away, lose myself to the hatred, substituting the torture for it.

When Reaver finally commands me to pause, I finally lift my eyes to the uppermost level, and acid simmers through my veins, a mad wrath stoking embers in my throat. Because he has her naked. On her knees. Sucking his foul cock. One hand fisting her hair to yank her closer to choke her. The other...under her chin, forcing her to look at him.

Brutal impulses overcome me. Driven by a vicious vengeance, my wings beat on their own. Waves of wrath rule me, nothing else. He’s aware of my ascent, but he’s too busy leering down at her, enjoying his torture as tears stream down her eyes, whether from her stuffed throat and burning lungs or the emotional pain, I can’t tell.

He jerks, slamming his hips, then pulling out to paint her body with his disgusting seed. I crash into him. He laughs. With his dick out and flagging, the asshole fucking laughs.

“Oh, tut tut, Merikh! I wondered when you would snap.” He grins at me while I pin him to the ground, towering over him with my wings. “I lost the bet that it would be when she first cried his name. Or when I stripped her naked the first time. No, all it took was that tight little throat wrapped around my dick!”

“I’ll rip off that miserable dick and shove it downyourthroat soon, Reaver. And I’ll cut off your balls and serve them to her,” I seethe through gritted teeth, spitting at him.

“Why, Merikh, was that a threat?” he guffaws.

Quintessa appears in my side vision, clad only in her tattoos, a ray of light shining through the dark tension. Eyes glassy and brows threaded with concern, she reaches out, but I growl in a warning. If she touches me, I’ll snap. Lose my fucking shit.

“Merikh...” her weak voice rasps. “Aislynn.”

The name is already a gods-damned noose around my throat. She simply pulls it tighter. I don’t let up yet. I sink my claws into his throat, just enough to draw his blood before shoving him hard against the stone and rising. Despite the torment of her body heat, her scent is tainted. I can’t look at her. If I were to see his cum dripping down her front, nothing will stop me from bending her over that balcony and fucking her right here. And Reaver would inflict his punishment on her the whole time.

The prick clicks his tongue while brushing his robes off and delicately touching the tips of his fingers to the superficialmarks. “That was quite foolish, Merikh. I was ready to end the night, but it seems you need a reminder of who is in charge. So, I’d suggest you return to that circle where you belong. You will be a contestant for this final battle. And you better make it good. Once it’s done, then you may take your sweet little queen with her tight throat anywhere you desire.”

I don’t hesitate to beat my wings. The prospect of one more fight, of getting us both out of here, drives me back to the arena until I land with the shooting force of my wings. The ground fractures beneath me.

When I glance up, Reaver has Quintessa pressed against the balcony in nothing but her skin while tipping another glass of venom wine into her mouth. Her eyes turn hollow before she swallows, and I recognize how hard she’s trying to detach, numb herself. But she stiffens when Reaver palms her breasts before softening, melting to the heady drink that is more mind and body-altering than Fae wine.

Reaver commands the final contestant to enter. She must be dragged. And my breaths hike. Guilt throbs a pained tremor inside me. My stomach hardens to iron.

While I may never have loved her, she is still the most loyal Founder. OIne I respect and care for in my detached way. Her light-binding pulses through her skin, shimmering beyond the sheer white shift Reaver chose for her, had forced upon her. Her long dark hair has been bound into a braid, cascading to her waist. And it’s not hatred that burns in her indigo eyes. It’s a cold, bruising remorse. Because she already knows how this battle will end.

Azurienne.

All the other Founders remain on their level, sitting upon their lower thrones, gazes darkened as they wait for the inevitable.

A cold, predatory fury bleeds through me, and my body reverts to its long-lost instincts, impulses. Punishment. Survival. Hatred. Damnation. Lust. Destruction. Death.

The Demon of Death, they called me. The tool in Malachor’s belt. The one he forged into a blade. The scars beneath the ones I wear today still have his fucking name written on them. A name I heard her scream so many times tonight.

A name she screams again despite her hoarse vocal cords. I don’t turn. I don’t look up.

Azurienne and I crash against one another in a battle between two lethal predators. Anyone can see who is stronger. Claws and teeth sink into my skin, but the pain doesn’t ground me. Only Shadow can.

The pain sends me deeper.

I lose myself to the hate and sadism creeping back into me like a prowling beast stalking my undead heart—ready to rip it from my chest. Because I had to destroy my heart every night I served as Malachor’s pawn.

I strangled it whenever I gripped throats and squeezed the life out of them. I crushed it whenever Malachor took me to his bed, fucked me on the coffin, or when I fucked others as he watched or participated.

Violence overcomes me, rips through me until I slam my body against my old lover’s until I break bones, rip flesh, and spill blood. Her screams have no effect. They cannot pierce the cold, dead scrap of flesh in my chest—unfeeling, worthless.

Kyan was the only time my heart could not be destroyed. He kept the shattered pieces from blowing away.

Shadow held them together.

Quintessa squeezes through their cracks and heals them with her blood, scars, and tattoos.

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