Page 137 of Fate's Sweetest Curse
Hattie, adorned in a garnet-red necklace of her own dried blood.
Hattie, with dark bruises marring the bare skin of her wrist, her arm in a sling.
Hattie, cringing in Brendan’s grasp, her sensuous body shrugging away from the unwanted touch.
Hattie, with black ichor on her dress—the same vileness that was awakening in his veins.
Hattie, with a bruise blooming across her perfect temple, her luscious hair tangled with leaves and twigs.
And, worst of all, Hattie: with fear and fury in her eyes, agony plain on her face. So strong, when she shouldn’t have to be. So brave, when she shouldn’t need to be. So good—too good—for a world filled with unfairness and darkness and brutality. So unbelievably beautiful inside and out, defiant of all the ways the Fates had endeavored to dim her brilliance.
It was unfair.
It was unconscionable.
It was unacceptable.
Noble was more than willing to endure the inhumanity of this world, but he wouldnotallow it totouchhis Hattie.
He had always tried to be good. He had valiantly fought against the riptides of his own inadequacy to be the man his father and society had expected him to be. He had fought against his inner wickedness, be it his inability to ever beenoughor the literal curse the Arcane Adepts had injected into his veins. He had always tried to live up to the legend of his namesake. And though he had failed to meet those expectations, he hadtriedto do the right thing.
But Noble was done trying.
Now, he would do the wrong thing.
Now, he would welcome failure and give in to the power that simmered under the surface of his humanity.
As he felt the wretched, wicked swell of the curse surging into his veins, awakened by the blood on his lover’s dress and encouraged by his rage over her peril, Noble had no problem becoming a monster.
He embraced it.
Because if there was one person worth giving upeverythingfor, it was her.
48
Nightmare
Hattie
His transformation began with the sickening breaking of bone: gnarled antlers pushing through the skin at Noble’s temples and unfurling with a horriblecrackingnoise, like splitting wood. He growled, seething through bared teeth that were already sharpening into points. At his sides, his fingers splayed wide, revealing elongated claws. His bare chest rose and fell with quick breaths, his beautiful body glistening with sweat as his muscles became more bulbous and his legs and torso stretched.
“NOBLE!” I screamed, breaking free of Brendan’s grip.
He didn’t hear me. His body was shaking violently with the disfigurement of his disease. A memory of the Morta flashed in my mind, showing me his eventual future: skinless, gaunt, a haunted creature of nightmares.
I stumbled forward, powerless as the man I loved gave into a curse that wasn’thim, that didn’tbelong, that was everything wicked and awful—the opposite of his pure, inherent goodness.
“Noble, don’t do this!” I shouted. “Noble, listen to me!”
His legs cracked, bending backward sharply. I shrieked as he pitched onto his hands and knees, his shoulder blades rippling. The guards surrounding Noble were wide-eyed with terror, the chains rattling as they held on to the monster he was becoming.
I wheeled toward Brendan, shouting, “Hylder! He needs Hylder!”
I expected Brendan to be pale in the face—shocked—but he wasgrinning.
The expression wasn’t just rage-inducing, it was cruel. I wrenched my wrist free of his grip and shoved his chest—hard—but he stood firm, spreading his arms helplessly.
“According to our intelligence, Hylder isn’t enough,” Brendan said. “He needs a cure.”
