Page 77 of Of Spindles and Nightfall
He paced back and forth as he awaited his servant, running a hand over his horns. Gods, the last few days had been a nightmare.
What was he thinking? That vampire princess had flipped his whole life on its head. Seeing her before him, suffering, burns spreading over her skin as her uncle looked on in delight, had broken something inside Zarathos.
A part of him didn’t even know who he was anymore.
And yet, that felt like the theme of Zarathos’s existence. From that day, long ago, when his father visited him and forced him to take the elixir. He’d stripped Zarathos’s own birth name from him. He’d stolen it, and ever since, Zarathos was less. Initially, he didn’t comprehend the scope of his father’s actions. But after he became king, he’d done some research in the old occult manuscripts. Sometimes when someone of his birth mixed with abaddon blood, shadow powers became enhanced. Stronger. His father must have known this, been threatened by Zarathos and so cast a spell on him that took his name and lessened his powers.
The worst part was that the caster determined the conditions under which such a spell could be broken. And his father was clever, not to mention deceased. Zarathos had made no progress in discovering a way to break the enchantment.
And now the vampress had him questioning his identity all over again.
No. Hedidknow. He was the demon his father molded him into. Demons were born but evil was made.
After his father had threatened to kill him as a boy and Zarathos had chosen to turn on his friend, he had known what kind of things he’d do to survive. Not only had it saved his life, but it had launched him on a journey to becoming the instrument his father always desired.
His father conceived many potential heirs. And beginning with that one betrayal of Casiel so long ago, Zarathos had proven his usefulness. He’d met none of his half siblings, but it became clear, soon after that letter, it was a competition. One that, if Zarathos lost, would mean his own death.
But Zarathos triumphed. He was the demon arch king. Strong. Ruthless. Conniving.
Weak. No matter what, Zarathos could never live up to the violent savagery of his father, and it was evident from Xaphoron’s and the trial council’s comments that they had noticed. Somehow, even in death, he disappointed his father. Zarathos attempted a performance, to feign his father’s vicious tenacity, but even with that first betrayal of his friend, his heart wasn’t invested. It was only something he’d done to survive his father, and now to survive the expectations as arch king.
He didn’t think of that initial betrayal against Casiel often. Or tried not to. But lately it kept forcing its way to the front of his mind, dragging with it the feelings he despised. Guilt. Shame. The creeping certainty that he was unworthy. That he was a monster.
Nevertheless, he was victorious. He’d survived. Feelings—love, especially—were dangerous. Vulnerabilities waiting to be exposed. Exploited.
And yet, recently, something inside of him was wrong, something irrevocably wrong. His actions made no sense. He’d created his persona so flawlessly and there was no way that one little vampire princess could mess that all up. Could messhimup so completely.
It must be the damn Bloodbinding. If he killed her, would it finally all go away? Relieve him of this suffering?
The handle to the closet jiggled, and the door swung open, revealing his servant, Pithian.
He slipped in and hastily shut the door before bowing. “The princess is still in your chambers, I presume?”
“As planned,” Zarathos responded. “Do you have the armor?”
Pithian reached into a knapsack and pulled out the folded armor, handing it over to Zarathos. “As a kalator, she doesn’t seem very helpful.”
At one point in time, kalators were supposed to be elite warriors. Now, their purpose was only to die slowly in the most entertaining and excruciating way possible. His body tensed as anger swelled within him, though he couldn’t pinpoint the source of his frustration. “I’m handling it.”
Pithian raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t look as if that was the case in the arena during the opening ceremony.Sheseemed to be handlingyou.”
Zarathos ran a hand through his hair. It was true. He’d completely lost it. Now it was a constant battle not to dwell on how it had felt, and how desperately his body wanted to feel her again. The beast stirred too close to the surface whenever Aryana was near.
“If you hadn’t thrust her away,” Pithian continued, “and she hadn’t begged, the whole thing would’ve ended in disaster. Not to mention what happened when you went for the scepter—”
“I came in third during the opening ceremony, didn’t I?” he shot back. Granted, his ranking was likely more due to him goading the others into killing a fellow champion in front of the crowd than anything the vampress had done—aside from her suffering, which had goadedhiminto making it happen. “I said I’m handling it.”
“I know you are my master, but if you die, then all is lost, and not just for me, but for everyone who relies on you. On your bargains.” Pithian looked away, his jaw clenching in aggravation. “Why is it even so important to keep her alive? She failed to get you the scepter, and your claim on the vampire throne is tenuous at best at this point. If I were you, I’d kill her in the upcoming trial. Then nobody will question your ruthlessness.”
Zarathos stalked toward him, shoulders square, his knuckles white. “I am the demon king and your master. The next time you challenge me or my motives, I will have you whipped within an inch of your life.”
Pithian raised his hands. “I get it. You’re in charge.”
Zarathos stood down, attempting to quell the fire in his veins. “How is the potion coming?”
“Sabious is being stingy. They said they want double.”
“Then pay it.”
