Page 54 of The Blood that Binds Us

A loose breath rattles out of me, and I shake my head, not in answer but in disbelief he is asking at all. “It has never mattered to you or your kingdom before,” I spit. “You haveonlyever assumed for us, and insisted on our extinction on the basis of legends and lies. So don’t ask me today,Your Grace,if I think I can control it.” My words drip with venom—heavy, furious, and positively lethal.

Sin looks at me for a long moment, a calm expression on his face, but his jaw taut and his lips thinned. And then with predatory swiftness, he slinks back into a crouch, raising his arms as if preparing to take me on hand-to-hand. All traces of pleasantry vanish from his voice when he orders, “All of it. I can handle your power, even if it does come from a filthy bloodwitch.”

Chaos explodes inside me.

My fingertips fade into golden wisps of pure, raw power. Pouring all my focus and intention into each thrust, I send waves of destruction rippling towards him, smashing into his walls again and again, each one denting them a little farther.

I’m barely aware of Sin, my power swelling up inside me like a raging tsunami, drowning out all thoughts of reason. He dashes left and right, reinforcing his shield, trying to hold it steady against my wrathful wake.

A steady roar pierces my ears as my fury rams into his barrier again, and it crumbles beneath my collective. I pull it back, and with the ferocity of the Howling Sea and my own ringing cry of anguish and resentment and vengeance, I hurl myself at his defense again. My blood thickens when I hear it snap, and the screaming—myscreaming—drowns out his own holler of pain, Sin’s face contorting with the impact of my rage.

I double over with the sudden surge of him.

Iam so, so thirsty.

A crippling dryness scratches my throat, and I wonder if this is what the trees felt the day Lostgarde burned. When the kingdom scorched the land that borders The Feral Vale to ensure that whatever creatures lurked within those dense woods couldn’t creep out.

Creatures like me.

White hot claws rake down my throat, begging for me to drink—not water, but…him. I raise my head to look at Sin, his body splayed out on the grass floor, and I dare a step closer.

The fire burns brighter.

Another step.

Hotter.

Another.

I swallow hard, willing the saliva to be enough to quench my thirst, my insatiable thirst, and take another step. I stoop to my knees and lean an ear towards his chest. His eyes fly open before I can listen for his heartbeat, and in his near reflective yellow-green eyes, I glimpse my own glimmering amber ones, brought to life from the dueling.

Sin, digging his elbows into the ground to prop himself up, pulls himself away from me slowly, his yellow-tinged eyes never leaving mine as he rests his back against a nearby tree. I rise to my feet and walk over to him, each step slow and controlled and steady. I scan for damage, but it is all internal. My final blast of magic shattered his wall.

Shattered a few ribs.

He reaches a hand inside his trouser pocket, and when he pulls it back out, a knife with a glistening sharp, beak-shaped blade is cupped in his palm. For a second, my heart sinks watching him prepare to defend himself, readying his knife to thrust into my chest should I lunge for him. But it isn’t fear swirling in the depths of his eyes as he beholds me.

I sink to my knees in front of him.

Before I register what he’s doing, Sin flips his hand over and presses the blade into his callused palm. Blood rushes from the long incision, his entire palm stained like a cardinal’s wing and spilling over the edge of his hand.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Each drop soaking the grass is deafening, beckoning me to dip my head and suck it from the lush green blades.

I go deadly still.

Sin, holding my stare very,verycarefully, slides closer to me and slowly raises his bloodied hand to my mouth.

Why is he doing this? All the torment I have felt buried deep within him—can he endure it no longer? Does he wish for me to end his suffering?

My tongue is as dry as the red-tinged dirt. If only I could taste, just for a moment, the sweet juice oozing from his hand. He is still as stone, as if the slightest twitch of muscle will trigger my need to chase.

“You can control it,” he whispers, reaching out his good hand and brushing the backs of his knuckles along the column of my neck. His words are soft as moonlight on velvet, his glowing eyes vibrant against his dark skin, his beautiful black hair, and I want… I want totastehim. To suck his vital fluid straight from its bleeding source.

I also want to grab that knife and bury it in his gut—for the insatiable rush of power it would give me. And to punish him for doing this to me.

“You can control it,” he murmurs again, his words brushing the space between us as if I projected my own ward around me, to try to block that sweet, sweet smell of him. “Listen to me,” he purrs. “Listen to my voice. You are Wren. You aregood.And you can control it.”

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