Page 6 of Little Mate

“Please, sire. We are—”

“Not another word. Understood?” Veltross nods, and I turn my face toward the dark witch. She’s already in mourning. Her body is wracked with sobs, and yet I feel no remorse. Not when her soul is as black as mine—her end goal is to eradicate the Moore bloodline. “Lilibeth, I’m going to give you one last chance to gain my favor. Where. Is. She?”

“I’ll never tell you.”

“Is that your final answer?”

“Fuck you.”

“No, thank you.” Flicking my eyes toward the second general, I snap a finger. “Brodej, are they outside in the training field?”

At once, he acknowledges me with a respectful glance. “Yes, my lord.”

“Thank you.” Valtross’s face grows tight at that, and I direct my attention back to him. Dare him to say a word; he doesn’t. “Bring her outside. She seems to need a little fresh air.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Standing from my seat, I walk down the center of the room toward the door. As I pass each row of soldiers, they begin to stand and then turn their formation to follow my every move.

Without pause, I slam open the room’s solid teak doors, ignoring the way they ram into the wall and how some of the golden filigree decoration crumbles under the impact. My steps are loud, and my destination is the back of my castle where her second lesson will commence.

No one is above Theodore Astor. You do not defy me.

The men escorting my guest keep a few feet of distance between us. They’re also silent, enjoying the struggles and cries escaping Lilibeth’s scared and angry form, the pitiful sounds filling the wide-open space.

It’s late in the evening now, the sky overcast, and the scent of rain lingers in the air. It greets us as we enter the large field just behind the castle’s rear exit. The rest of my kingdom’s troops stand at attention, leaving the area to the left of where I stand empty, but not for long as the heavy footfalls of every vampire who’d been inside the throne room vibrate against the ground.

They take their positions, standing tall and with their eyes straight ahead while I turn my attention to Lilibeth and Brodej.

She’s struggling in his hold, thrashing. “Let me go!” He doesn’t answer. Instead, he lifts her feet off the ground, both hands gripping her upper arms tightly. “You will regret this. I will curse—”

“Sister, please.” That catches her attention. Lilibeth goes from spitting mad to eerily quiet within a single breath. Her eyes focus on the one who spoke. The shock in them is quite a pretty sight.

“Palermo.” It’s a whisper, the sound full of sorrow. Her head shakes from side to side, her body limp in Brodej’s hold while her eyes roam down the line of kneeling men, every ranking member of her smaller coven. All men. Her family. “Oh God, no. No.”

“I’ll ask you again, Lilibeth.” Taking the remaining steps between us, I stand in her line of sight and pull her eyes toward me with the tip of a finger. “Where is Gabriella Moore? Where is she hiding?”

“I can’t.”

“You will.” I hold a hand up, and a scream rends the air. It’s male, an older one at that, and Lilibeth’s eyes close in misery. The scent of blood is heavy in the air and a few vampires hiss, taking a step forward but no more than that as her father’s life essence stains the grass. “That cut across his chest is shallow, my dear. The next won’t be as gentle.”

“Have you no heart?” she asks, voice low and full of so much pain. “How can you hurt my mate—innocent men? They don’t deserve this cruelty.”

“Innocent? The man who plunged the stolen Stygian blade deep into his own king’s chest? That’s who you call innocent?”

“He didn’t—”

Ignoring her attempt to save her father’s life, I look out toward my army. Men and women who are loyal to me. “Is the man responsible for his queen’s torture then decapitation worthy of mercy?”

“No.” In unison, they answer.

“Does he deserve death?”

“Yes.”

“An eye for an eye?” The soldier holding Lilibeth’s kin, a woman who’s second-in-command of a battalion under her husband, Brodej, takes heed to my demand, and with her sharp nail digs the orb out of its socket. Her nail is embedded deep, the eye and the attached ligament dangling from her small finger. Once again he screams, the sound pleasurable to my senses. Because a predator enjoys cornered prey—the scent of fear that seeps from their every pore. “Or perhaps a limb? He did molest her, after all.”

“Please don’t,” the man, an older version of Lilibeth’s crying brother, pleads. “We can come to an agreement over the sisters. We only want one of them.”

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