Page 93 of Primal Bonds

Midnight came and went. He wrapped himself in a blanket and dozed, tormented by fevered dreams. Nika, furious that he’d left her behind to face the music. His father telling him what a weak excuse for a man he was.

But the worst were the black shadows that slithered out of the walls to wind chill fingers around his limbs. His nostrils twitched. Metal and decay.

He jerked awake to find Tyrus staring down at him.

The night fae lord was dressed in black from his overpriced duster to his handmade leather shoes. Tall and thin, he loomed over Corban like an elegant crow, his eyes dark coals in his pale face.

“Get up.” He planted his toe in Corban’s ribs.

Corban had already thrown off the blanket. He rose to his feet, ignoring the pain that stabbed through his leg. Never let them see that you’re weak.

Even standing, he had to look up. He was tall for an earth fada, but the night fae had a good six inches on him.

“Jones is still alive.” Tyrus’s tone was icy with scorn. “And Adric took your woman prisoner. What the fuck am I paying you for?”

“Kill him yourself then,” Corban snarled. “Your assassin failed, too.”

Tyrus struck. Long white fingers wrapped around Corban’s throat, rattlesnake-fast. “You dare argue with me, fada?” He gave Corban a shake.

Corban growled. His claws slid out and he took a swipe at Tyrus, but the night fae grabbed his wrist and shoved him back against the wall.

Stunned, Corban stared at Tyrus. The man must have the Gift of wayfaring. Only a fae who could move at an inhuman speed could’ve evaded a fada so easily.

Fear coated his insides.

Tyrus held Corban pinned against the wall. His gaze snagged Corban’s. He froze, ensnared by the unholy red flicker in the night fae’s pupils.

Energy hummed over Corban’s skin—cold and black as the slithering shadows of his nightmare. His bowels iced.

“No,” he said, but the sound was swallowed in the darkness.

The energy increased, braiding itself into ropes. One rope twined around his skull, while a second spiraled around his chest and a third licked up his injured leg.

Blackness. Endless as a nightmare. He was small, helpless, cowering before his father.

“Stupid cub.” A hand clouted him in the head. His ears rang. A single tear slid down his cheek, and his father hit him again, disgusted.

“Stop your blubbering, you little coward.”

Corban tried, but the tears wouldn’t dry up. They ran down his cheeks, hot and damning.

The blows fell again and again, until Corban’s face was on fire and he was woozy with pain. They didn’t stop until Corban forced the tears down into somewhere so deep and tightly guarded, they never escaped again.

The rope around Corban’s chest constricted. Panic clawed at him. He was forced to take short, shallow breaths, unable to fill his lungs.

“I own you,” Tyrus said, soft and cold. “We have a contract.”

Despair washed over Corban. He fought the urge to turn his head and offer submission to the night fae in the way of his wolf.

But he’d been raised by a bastard. Despair and hopelessness were mother’s milk to Leron Savonett’s son.

Rage rose up in him. All the rage the sniveling little boy had had to hide. It blew away the despair, replacing it with a red-eyed fury. His head pounded, and his vision clouded.

His switchblade practically leapt into his hand. He released the blade with a snick and pressed it into Tyrus’s belly. “Get. Your. Hands. Off. Me.”

Surprise flashed over the other man’s face. He released Corban and took a step back, but his silent assault continued—only now, he was feeding off Corban’s anger.

Gods, the man was a sick fuck.

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