Page 57 of His Ruthless Match
“Try not to screw up too much in the meantime,” Grelth said.
I slammed the door behind me. My jaw was still tight as I stalked down the path leading to the beach, my thoughts a tangled mess of irritation and something I couldn’t quite name.
The truth was, Grelth’s words had struck a nerve because they weren’t entirely wrong. Evadidtolerate me. She didn’t like me, not the way I liked her. And why would she? I was a pain in the ass on my best day and downright impossible on my worst.
I kicked a rock down the path, watching as it bounced and skidded toward the water. My cougar growled low, as if to say that he, too, noticed an attraction to Eva. Great. Just fucking great.
I needed a distraction. Hell, I needed to kill someone. In fact, it might be time to visit the Crimson Dominion to see how the uprising was progressing. Maybe seeing more death and destruction would get Eva fucking Delgado out of my brain and settle my cougar, who seemed to get antsier with each passing day I spent with Eva.
The airin the Crimson Dominion’s market was oppressive, thick with the metallic tang of blood magic and the acrid sting of alchemical concoctions. As I stepped through the shimmeringblack mist marking the entrance, its enchanted whispers brushed against my ears like a ghost’s warning:Turn back. You don’t belong here.
I ignored it. The Crimson Dominion’s market was a breeding ground for chaos, but this time, it was personal. The Shadow’s foothold here was slipping, and if the magistrate got wind of the rebels’ growing power, there would be hell to pay.
The glowing red runes etched into the stone corridors provided just enough light for me to make out the jagged stalls and winding pathways. Merchants hawked their wares with voices as sharp as daggers, haggling and shouting over one another in a symphony of greed. The stalls themselves were a patchwork of salvaged debris—twisted metal, warped wood, and, in some cases, bone. It was the kind of place where you kept one hand on your coin pouch and the other on your blade.
I adjusted the hood of my jacket, keeping my face obscured as I weaved through the crowd. The last thing I needed was for one of these opportunistic bastards to recognize me as The Shadow’s second-in-command. My goal was to blend in and see the place as the vendors and buyers did—not as an enforcer, but as an observer.
The scent of bubbling potions and burning magical ingredients burned my nostrils. A hooded alchemist to my left was loudly extolling the virtues of a forgetting draught, its jagged glass vial shimmering ominously under the light of the runes.
“Erase your worst memories, your biggest regrets,” he crooned. “A fresh start for the low price of your sanity.”
I kept walking, passing stalls laden with cursed objects displayed on velvet cloths—grimoires bound in skin, glowing daggers that seemed to hum with malevolence, and talismans pulsing faintly with dark energy. One merchant demonstrated a scrying orb, its surface rippling unsettlingly as it revealed glimpses of an enemy’s darkest secrets. The buyer, a gauntvampire reeking of desperation, handed over a pouch of gold with trembling hands.
The market buzzed with tension. Those loyal to The Shadow patrolled the aisles, their presence a stark reminder of the new regulations. They were met with glares and muttered curses from vendors who bristled under the oversight. The rebels had stirred up enough dissent that even the loyalists seemed on edge, their authority undermined by the crowd’s defiance.
A central stall caught my attention, its crimson banners flapping unnervingly despite the still air. That was the domain of the Blood Broker, the mysterious figure who ruled over the market’s most powerful vendors. I didn’t need to get close to feel his influence—the deference from the surrounding merchants said it all. If anyone had their finger on the pulse of the Crimson Dominion’s rebellion, it was him.
As I approached, a heated argument caught my attention. A scuffle had broken out between a vendor and a buyer. The air around them crackled with unstable magic. The vendor, a burly shifter with scars crisscrossing his arms, was accusing the buyer of presenting forged documentation. The buyer, a wiry vampire with shifty eyes, denied it vehemently, his voice rising to a near shout.
Before the situation could escalate further, I stepped in, my presence immediately commanding attention. “Enough.”
Both men froze, their gazes snapping to me.
The shifter growled, his muscles tensing as if preparing for a fight. “Who the fuck are you to?—”
I pulled back my hood just enough for him to catch a glimpse of my face. Recognition dawned in his eyes, and he stepped back, his aggression replaced with wary respect.
“I didn’t realize…”
“Now you do,” I said. “Handle your business, but keep the magic to a minimum. You’re not helping anyone by burning this place to the ground.”
The buyer slinked away, muttering curses under his breath, while the shifter gave me a begrudging nod of thanks. I turned and continued deeper into the market, my senses on high alert. It was worse than I’d anticipated. The Shadow’s loyalists were trying to maintain control, but the cracks in their authority were widening.
I passed a vendor selling enchanted creatures, their cages lining the market’s edge. Night hounds with glowing eyes snarled at passersby, their breath fogging the air, while tiny imps grinned wickedly from within glass jars. A few of the creatures were clearly bred for violence, their twisted forms a testament to the Crimson Dominion’s penchant for cruelty.
Nearby, a rebel disguised as a merchant was selling counterfeit documentation. I lingered just long enough to catch snippets of his conversation with a customer. They were discussing smuggling routes and an upcoming meeting to plan another riot. My fists clenched at my sides. The Shadow needed to act quickly, or this rebellion would spiral out of control. Was Izo reporting this to him? Was Izo even fully aware? What the hell was he doing here if things were getting this bad?
Surely the magistrate wouldn’t sit idly by if they got wind of this unrest. Even though Izo had hinted at them having a hand in it all, I found it hard to imagine that they’d want fucking rebel factions burning one of the territories in their jurisdiction. What would they stand to gain?
I approached one of the vendors I’d seen on my last visit. Merrik’s stall was the stuff of nightmares. The bubbling cauldron at the back hissed and spat like it had its own temper, filling the air with the sickening smell of burnt metal and something rancid and faintly sweet, like spoiled meat. Jars lined his table,each more grotesque than the last: skeletal hands curled into permanent fists, glowing eyes that followed your every move, and fluttering wings that seemed alive but trapped in their glass prisons.
The centerpiece was the real horror. A stitched-together creature, part animal, part human, sat motionless in a case. Its glassy eyes gleamed, twitching ever so slightly when I moved closer.
“What the hell is that thing supposed to be?” I asked, feigning disinterest. My tone was casual, but the sight of it made my stomach churn.
Merrik, a wiry man with pale, parchment-like skin, clasped his hands together tightly. The glowing scars etched across his skin rippled with the motion. His grin revealed unnaturally sharp teeth, and his patchwork coat—stitched together from fabrics and, if my hunch was right, flesh—shifted with his movement.
“Ah, a connoisseur,” he said, his voice an eerie sing-song. “This, my good sir, is no mere trinket. It’s a masterpiece of dark alchemy—a familiar, bound by breath and loyalty. Spies, assassins, messengers—my little friends can do it all!”
