Page 103 of Of Spindles and Nightfall
He ran a hand over his face. “If I do this, will you agree to drink some blood tonight?”
“After the banquet. I promise.” She limped over to the black potion that made her subject to suggestion that he kept on his bedside table. Last time they hadn’t used it and everything had almost ended in disaster. This time, she needed to ensure she was seen as nothing but Zarathos’s helpless plaything. “I want you to use this tonight to tell me what to feel.”
Chapter 32
Zarathos
Zarathos sat at the center of the banquet table. So many feasts for the champions. Demons who smiled and spoke—well, somewhat politely—in such settings, but then were ready to rip each other’s heads off in the arena. Zarathos didn’t blame them. He played the same game.
But he did blame them for the spectacle they forced Aryana to endure tonight.
She stood behind him and slightly to the right, trembling in his peripheral vision. The same torn and tattered gown from the banquet only a night ago clung to her frame, now soaked in blood and nearly blackened by the soil andgrime she’d crawled through during the last trial. Refusing even a bath, her skin was as streaked and battered as the fabric, marked with burns and bruises.
All because she was the vampire princess.
The potion she’d taken left a sharp, unmistakable scent in the air: fear.
He’d learned to focus it on the situation, not himself. Yet, he was unsure if that made it any better for her. It didn’t make it any easier for him to know she was terrified, and he was the one who forced her to feel that way.
Damn the Demon Trials. Damn his company. She was too good for him, too good for any of them. She should be sitting by his side, fierce and unyielding, her gaze burning with purpose. Not cowering in the shadows.
His fist clenched around his fork. He hated what she did to herself. The self-inflicted pain. Knowing her, she most likely believed she deserved it. As if it wasn’t Zarathos that had trapped her in this situation he couldn’t get either of them out of.
The other demons passed by, eyeing her. “Looks as if someone has fallen from grace,” Pithian, acting in his role as Marbas, said dismissively. That bastard. Zarathos was pretty sure he’d assisted Aryana in her self-wounding. He would find a means to make him pay.
What was left of the other kalators were standing behind their champions, as disheveled and beaten as Aryana. By the end of the night, he’d have to do something other than let her stand there in fear and pain.
Pithian took his seat further down the table, talking big as he did at such events, even while casting a glance at Zarathos, warning him not to back out.
Gods, he despised this.
The kingdom of Aeria was hosting the event, and this time the council was also in attendance. Aside from the champions and council members, the rest of the demons in the room hailed from the host nation.
Xaphoron rose from his seat, his broad wings unfurling behind him in a graceful arc. “Welcome to our feast! Though we may be enemies on the battlefield, tonight is a time for pleasure and celebration. A moment to commend ourselves for making it this far.”
A sinister smirk came to his face, probably plotting how to defeat his fellow champions and secure himself a crown in the next trial. Although ironically, Zarathos had claimed a crown. A member of the trial council had given it to him before coming to the feast. Killing Balafur meant the crown from the first trial transferred to Zarathos.
“So enjoy tonight, council members. And my fellow champions…” Xaphoron’s smile turned dark. “Enjoy it while you can.”
He clapped his hands, and the doors on the other side opened. The smell of humans flooded Zarathos’s nostrils. Twenty human females in white shifts were herded into the room. Their hair was pulled back, makeup done up. They looked innocent, the scent of fear drifting off of them. Worthy of devouring.
The demons around him rose, fixing their gaze on them, hunger in their eyes.
He sensed Aryana stiffening behind him.
The trouble with the Draught of Corruption was that, after repeated use, its effects began to fade more quickly. It had to be wearing off for her.
And at the worst time.
He stole a glance behind him. She was fixated on the females, eyes blazing, fists clenched at her sides.
Damn it. After everything he’d seen of her pain, he understood. Aryana didn’t just think love was weak. She believedherlove was weak. That she had failed the ones she cared for: her father, her human friend, the town she couldn’t save.
And now, this was her chance to make up for it.
But in this moment, in this festering pit, redemption meant death—for both her and Zarathos.
All the time spent with her in his chambers had made this truth impossible to ignore, and now she had chosen this terrible instant to play it out.
