All his life, he’d speculated how she would react to his scars. He’d been astonished to learn that she had no issues with him physically—merely issues with, well, everything else.
Even she admitted that their chemistry crackled.
From thousands of lofty perches, he’d gazed down upon Lorean wickedness. Watching an offendment was almost as bad as committing one, so he’d always turned away, but those glimpses had taught him much. He’d seen immortals addicted to intoxispells, begging to do anything for more.
Thronos had never understood addiction before. Now he wondered what he wouldn’t do for more of this sizzling interplay with his mate.
Might he stop insulting her?
Perhaps he should go even further and court her. As a boy, he’d done so and found success. She’d liked to be given presents. Good thing he’d snagged that medallion from the temple.
When they’d run from the dragon, Thronos had stretched out his talon for it. Now he had it hidden in his pocket.
A stray thought flitted through his brain. How many gifts of jewelry have other males given her? To reward her for sex? His grip tightened around her arm, his horns aching to mark her again.
Just because he had a goal of treating her better didn’t mean he could achieve it. Wrath still lived within him. . . .
“Strange that we haven’t seen a soul,” she said, frowning at his grip.
He eventually eased it. “There’s nothing of value to guard. Plus, they’re probably still on the battlefield.”
After what felt like leagues, the trail forked, the two branches heading in opposite directions.
“Which way to the corpse rot?” she asked him.
He waved to the right, and they kept moving.
As they neared the burial area, the stench became overwhelming. Another cavern opened up, larger than the initial one. It’d likely been chosen for its size because it was filled to the ceiling with a mountain of bones, decapitated bodies, and horned skulls.
The mound had a creeping, rippling coat of rats. The skittering mass darted in and out of the remains, as if along paths.
When Melanthe’s eyes went wide at the gruesome sight, he tugged her back. “There’s no exit. Let’s head the other way.”
“Are you trying to protect my innocent eyes?” This seemed to amuse her. “I was just nine when my parents’ heads dropped off their bed and rolled toward me like wayward toys. When I was eleven, I used a shard of my sister’s skull to scoop up her brain matter and put her back together again. I haven’t been innocent since my life became entangled with Vrekeners.”
If his knights truly had hunted the two Sorceri girls, the attacks would have been unending. A living hell.
Vrekeners never abandon their hunt.
“Not to mention Omort’s court,” she said. “I can never unsee the things I witnessed there.”
“I wish that I could have spared you that,” he said honestly.
“You could have spared me some. Last year when you set that trap for me, I’d been in Louisiana to retrieve my sister, so she could take her dose of morsus. She was dying. Because of you, I had to flee, getting completely turned around in a strange city. I was lost and frantic. Because of you, I couldn’t rescue Sabine. When the portal door shut on your leg, I’m sure you were suitably pissed on your side. On my side, I kicked your leg around, cursing it. Until I heard Omort from the shadows—in my room—grating, ‘And you dare return without her.’ ” She visibly shuddered. “I’ve never been closer to death than I was then. Never. So thanks, Thronos.”
“I couldn’t have known that.” One year ago, she’d almost been murdered by her brother. The idea of Melanthe dying while Thronos was helpless to protect her . . .
Would he have sensed the loss, even across worlds?
She regarded his face. “I’ve tried to live my life. And you jeopardized it. It’s a miracle that I’ve survived this long. Speaking of which . . .” She crossed to the burial mound, reaching for something. She hauled a battered sword out from the bottom. A few bones and skulls tumbled down like a mini rock slide.
She laid the sword flat over one of her shoulders. “You ready?”
He nodded, and they set out once more, his thoughts in turmoil. Never been closer to death.
Because of him. No, he couldn’t have predicted what his actions might bring about—because it’d never occurred to him that Melanthe was a prisoner of Omort.
Had he assumed the worst about her in every instance?