Page 28 of The Manticore's Human Queen
“Good. You should be frightened.” Another step brings me close enough to see the pulse fluttering in her throat. “Tell me, Lyra, do you sleep well at night? Knowing what you’ve done?”
Her breath catches. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t you?” I tilt my head, studying her like a fascinating specimen. “My midnight walks to the menagerie. My sudden interest in healing herbs. The hours I’ve spent disappearing. Someone told them about all that, didn’t they?”
“My Lady, I?—”
“Someone who had access to my chambers. Someone who knew my habits better than anyone else.” I lean closer, my voice dropping to a whisper. “Someone who was supposed to protect me.”
Tears spill down her cheeks. “I had to,” she chokes out. “They would have killed me if I didn’t tell them. You don’t understand what they’re capable of?—”
“Oh, but I do understand.” I straighten, my composure returning like ice settling over still water. “I understand perfectly. You chose your own skin over mine. I can’t even blame you for it.”
Relief flickers in her eyes, hope that I might forgive her.
“But I can’t forgive you either,” I continue, watching that hope die. “You see, Lyra, your betrayal set certain things in motion. Things that can’t be undone now, even if I wanted to.”
“What things?” she whispers.
I smile, and from her expression, it’s a terrible thing to see. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
She gathers her courage, stepping forward with shaking hands extended. “My Lady, please. Let me help you. I can still?—”
“Help me?” I laugh again, the sound sharp enough to cut glass. “You want to help me now?”
“Yes,” she says desperately. “Whatever you’re planning, whatever you think you have to do—I can help. I can make it right.”
I look at her for a long moment, taking in her tear-streaked face, her trembling hands, her desperate need for absolution. Then I let my mask slip completely, showing her the predator I’ve become.
“The only help I want from you, Lyra,” I say with perfect clarity, “is for you to drop dead.”
Her eyes widen with shock and terror as I stride toward her, my wedding gown rustling like the wings of an avenging angel.
“My Lady, please?—”
But I’m done listening. Done pretending. Done being anyone’s victim. Today, the performance ends.
31
TAREK
The ballroom transforms into a theater of cruelty, and I stand as its unwilling star. They parade me through the assembled nobles like a prize bull, my golden cage wheeled on ornate platforms so every guest can gawk at the beast they’ll soon hunt. The chains binding me allow just enough movement to showcase my size, my scars, the raw power trapped within this prison of twisted metal.
“Magnificent specimen,” Lord Valeth declares, circling my cage with predatory interest. “I see why young Zarren was so eager to capture it.”
“Look at the size of those claws,” Lady Morvaine breathes, her silver eyes gleaming with fascination. “Imagine the damage they could do.”
The dark elf ladies cluster closer, their gazes raking over my form with undisguised hunger. They whisper behind jeweled fans, their eyes lingering on my torso, on the evident proof of my manhood barely concealed by the tattered remnants of my clothing.
“Such… impressive proportions,” one giggles, loud enough for her husband to hear. “I wonder if all manticores are so… generously endowed?”
Her lord’s face darkens with jealousy and rage, his hand twitching toward his sword hilt. “Mind your tongue, wife.”
But she continues to stare, as do the others, their appreciation for my physical form evident in their heated gazes and breathless comments. The husbands grow restless, their masculine pride wounded by their wives’ fascination with the caged beast.
“Perhaps we should begin the hunt early,” one lord growls, his silver eyes flashing with murderous intent. “Put this animal out of its misery.”
“Patience,” Lord Renlir chuckles from his position near the marriage altar. “All good entertainment requires proper timing.”
