Page 74 of Anorthic Anarchy

The warmth of his lips as he presses them into my shoulder encourages me to continue. “I want you to want to help the people of this city, too. To not just eradicate Clavius and Herodius for your mother’s revenge.”

His body stills, then he sits up. Without letting me go, he drags me up until my head rests against his chest. The drum of his heart beats at a rapid pace beneath my ear, easing some lingering nerves. “Itwasn’tjust for that. Though that is a big part. It was because they enslaved me just as much as the menand women they traded. Theyusedmy name to get their work done without my permission. I’ve been trapped, just like the women who chose to stay here. If we left, life would have been worse.”

Lifting my chin, my eyes stare into his gray ones. “So let’s make it better for everyone.”

“I don’t like everyone. Only you.”

It’s too much to expect him to try to fix this for the welfare of the citizens here. My fingers trace his tattoos across his chest. Then, I tell him.

I explain about walking down the drive, thinking I was going to just keep going. Not really having a clue about where to go. There was a small explosion, then the men snatched me and threw me in a van.

Describing every detail of the dark room, I note how it was nothing compared to the darkness in the cell beneath us now. That the coffin, much like my crate, became home if only for a little while.

But their threats against Bert were the worst.

“And they said if I brought you to the Crimson Angel alive, but bound, then they wouldn’t come for us.”

Vincente strokes my hair back from my face and nods. “But you’re not doing that.”

“They said they wanted to bleed me on the Winter Solstice, but I don’t even know when that is.” Pausing, I ponder on the question that’s been burning through me the entire time. “I think they were trying to get Bert to die inside me without spilling any blood. Make her suffocate in that coffin or starve her out.”

His gray eyes darken as he lowers his eyelids, then lays his head back against the headboard. “Yes. They can’t have you bleed until their ritual. They love their symbols.” Quieter, almost to himself, he mutters, “Which will be their downfall.”

“This is why we need to discuss this with the families. They need to understand the threat against them comingsoon. If I don’t hand you over, what do you think they’ll do?”

A tiny smile forms on his lips, and he opens his eyes to look into mine for a meaningful moment, then he kisses me tenderly. “I love your optimism and tenacity. We’ll go meet with the families. But I’ll warn you…it won’t end the way you hope.”

My fingers dig between his as I squeeze his hand. It feels like he’s my strength, in a way. The force behind my power. “I have to try, but before we go, could you do one thing first?”

Warm breaths from his parted mouth huff onto me and the desperation I feel for him is reflected in his expression of love. “Anything, angel.”

“Put my collar back on me.”

A small gasp escapes his throat. “You-you want the collar?”

My hair catches in my mouth as I nod rapidly. “You said I have a choice. I choose to be branded as yours.”

His face softens as he finds my ring finger and twirls the gold around. “Always. You’llalwaysbe branded mine. And I’m yours.”

He’s right. Despite wearing a gown that’s fit for a queen, it feels like I’m pretending to be someone I’m not as I face the six people in front of me. Vincente’s hand never leaves my waist as he stands at the head of a rickety table left standing in a pile of rubble from some old store in Center City, the only place everyone agreed to meet.

Guards line the walls and Sev stands behind us. But I think he’s mainly here for a show.

While my frame quivers with nerves, my husband’s expression turns stoic, like he’s a statue of some sort as he addresses the room. “Thank you for coming, my gentle people.”

“We won’t be gentle when it comes to you,” a burly man, I think Senator Freidenberg is his name, roars. The woman beside him places her hand on his and we meet eyes for a moment. There’s sympathy behind them. But I’m the one who feels sorry for those who live in their own ignorance.

A small brunette woman, Arianna Donovan, sits across the table from her. Her eyes trace my figure up and down, as if judging my clothing scrupulously. I narrow my gaze back with a show of dominance. Overall, it probably lands flat, considering how young I feel compared to the others in the room.

Mrs. Von Dovish stands with a machine gun resting over her pregnant belly against the far wall with some guards. Even though her figure seems like a badass, there’s some innocent fear in her face. Out of everyone here, she seems more like a reflection of my internal state.

When the men do glance at me, it’s with pity in their eyes. Like I’m a captive brought here by a tyrant. The look sets my teeth on edge. They have no idea what the real problem is here, blaming their troubles on the man who can help them.

“My wife has something she’d like to tell you.”

Ace Donovan snorts loudly. “Wife.”

Vincente’s head hangs, which makes the rage rising in my blood start to boil over.

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