Page 83 of A Storm of Fire and Ash
Kalista was on the floor, her gown torn, her breasts exposed and being groped. Her long blonde hair tangled and matted with blood. Her arms were pinned by one man—Bastion—and her body twisted unnaturally as she tried to fight. Two other men were behind her, their trousers pushed to their ankles, their small cocks hard, their intentions disgusting and unmistakable. One held her legs as the other knelt between. Their mouths were open with sick laughter. Their eyes glinted with cruelty.
And Kalista—Kalista was shaking, her face bruised, her lip split, her body struggling beneath them, and her dress was scrunched to her waist.
I couldn’t breathe.
Bastion looked up at me, still holding Kalista, with a sneer. “Well, well,” Bastion said, voice thick with mockery. “Another pretty one to join. Hope your back is healed. Get her.”
The other two turned their gaze on me, leering.
Something snapped inside of me. Not just in my chest—in the earth.
My magic surged like a storm unleashed. Vines erupted from the cracks in the castle floor, thick and black with thorns as long as daggers. They writhed and twisted at my command, hissing as they slithered across stone, wrapping around columns and sealing the room like a cage of living rage.
I used my magic to create a new door so the bastards couldn’tescape, sealing us inside.
I was done holding back.
“What in the fuck?” One of the men said as he gripped the wall.
The air bent around me, sharp with heat. Flames danced along my fingers, flickering between green and gold as I stepped forward, my boots crunched over shards of splintered doorframe. My rage burned with focus. With purpose. I saw their faces—Bastion, the others—and I remembered them. The ones who beat Fintan. The ones who grinned when blood spilled. The ones who cheered the King on as he whipped me. I burned their faces into my memory. I would not forget again.
I pulled the dagger from the sheath hidden beneath my breast leather.
No hesitation.
I moved like fire.
The first man—one of the ones with his trousers down—barely had time to react before I was on him. I drove my blade into his gut, twisting hard and then sliced up. His intestines fell to the floor with athud. He gasped, staggered, and crumpled to the floor in a wet heap. The second man—the one who almost had his way with Kalista—scrambled. He pushed himself up from the marble, fumbling with his trousers, trying to run. Like he stood a chance against my magic.
The ground shuddered beneath my feet. Roots erupted from the stone, twisting together as a new door of living wood and thorned vines burst into existence. The vines snapped tight, sealing the entry with cruel, spiked tendrils that hissed as they locked into place.
“No one’s leaving,” I said coldly.
Kalista whimpered behind them. I saw her, crumpled and bloodied, watching me with wide, terrified eyes.
The man backed toward Bastion, stammering. “She’s a witch—a demon—gods—”
“Fae,” I said through my teeth, stepping closer, fire curling up my arms. “And you’re going to wishyou’d never touched her.”
The man screamed as my vines shot up from the floor and wrapped around his bare thighs. The thorns dug deep, piercing flesh and muscle with a wet, ripping sound. Blood splattered the stone. He howled, bucking and thrashing, but the vines didn’t loosen. They climbed up his body like living chains—coiling around his wrists, his torso, his throat—until he was held wide open, trembling and sobbing, blood dripping from a dozen wounds. They wrapped around his now flaccid skin and squeezed.
He screamed. I didn’t flinch. I watched him tremble—pathetic and half-naked, strung by my vines like meat on a spit. His eyes rolled with panic, his mouth babbling prayers to gods that had never listened.
I smiled.
Then I sent the command.
My vines tightened—sharply, mercilessly—around the now soft flesh between his legs. He shrieked as the thorns pierced deep, twisting, tearing. Blood gushed in hot, pulsing bursts. The sound of it—wet and raw—was almost musical. With a sickening rip, my vines tore his small cock from his body.
He tried to scream again, but it came out as a gurgle.
Before he could pass out, I stepped forward, raising both hands. The vines shifted, weaving themselves into a long, thick spear—hard as wood, barbed like a rose stem. It pulsed with my fury.
I tilted my head slightly. He sobbed.
I opened his legs wider with a flick of my fingers. Then, slowly, deliberately, I nodded.
The thorned spear shot upward, impaling him through his ass with bone-splintering force. It tore through muscle, spine, lung—everything. And then, with a final, revolting crunch, it exploded from his mouth.
