Claws grew from his nailbeds, sharper than ever before. She had harmed his brother in the worst way. Therefore, she couldn’t be his mate. He’d been mistaken about that. Protect her? Not now, not ever. She would pay for her crime. He would see to it personally.
A life for a life.
Without wings—the source of his power and his only key into the realm—McCadden couldn’t remain in Nevaeh. He would become a Fallen One. An enemy.
In that moment, Brochan knew two things. He would not remain without his brother. So he must fall.
Bitterness was forbidden to Sent Ones. With good reason! It acted as a terrible poison. A highly contagious sickness with only one cure: forgiveness. Without that forgiveness, Brochan’s wings would wither into nothing, just like his brother’s. If he managed to avoid detection long enough for the process to complete. As soon as another Sent One sniffed out the animosity he smuggled in his heart, he would face immediate exile and the forced removal of his wings.
He hardened his heart. Forgive Viola? No. He’d barely managed the feat with his parents and his wives.
A burn flourished in his chest, intensifying swiftly, and he blinked. Did bitterness already attempt to burrow and root?
Better to leave Nevaeh now. If he waited for an official eviction, his wings would be removed by blade rather than time. To mete his revenge against the goddess, he required his wings as long as possible.
“Worry not, brother. I will see to the goddess,” he vowed. “She will pay for this. And I will find a way to save you. Nothing will stop me.”
Chapter One
Glorious. Wondrous. Incomparable. Viola, goddess of the Afterlife, drank in the sight before her. The beauty! Had she ever viewed such a flawless masterpiece? Such perfect perfection? Dazed, she tilted her head left, right, down, up, studying the image from different angles. Only gets better.
The dips and rises. The subtle shading of colors. Layer upon layer of exquisite detail. Honestly, nothing compared to this. The sheer, unadulterated majesty welled tears in her eyes.
From somewhere nearby, a man asked, “Is she admiring…herself?”
“She is,” another man replied, glee in the undertone. “She’s possessed by the demon of Narcissism. To capture her, I had only to hold up this mirror. Within seconds, she stopped fighting.”
The duo laughed, pleased with themselves.
Silly males. She wasn’t possessed, a term used too loosely among their ilk. She was oppressed. There was a big difference. Possession equaled a total takeover. Oppression pointed to shackles of influence the fiend utilized liberally, all from the safety of a stronghold it had built inside her mind. A stronghold she had allowed it to build.
Ignorance destroyed as surely as a blade.
Now, Narcissism sought adoration and destruction in equal measure, and used her to get it.
Someone applied pressure to her shoulders, forcing her to perch on an uncomfortable chair. Oh, wow. And I thought such perfection couldn’t be improved. Standing, she was magnificent. But sitting? More so.
One of her companions drew her arms behind her back. Something cold and hard circled her wrists. The same sensations registered on her ankles as well. Fetters?
I look amazing in chains.
No, no. This isn’t right.
“Remove her weapons,” the second male commanded.
In a shadowy corner of Viola’s mind, she knew she’d allowed this detainment for a specific purpose. She remembered waking to the sound of her alarm clock—clapping and cheering, as she deserved. Then she had beautified—aka breathed—and gone to a bar to condemn someone to death and…what, what? Just as soon as she broke the mirror’s spell, she would remember her endgame, then save herself and the day. Obviously. There was no one as strong or wise as her. But…
Shouldn’t she admire her sun-kissed skin a little longer? What about the mischievous glint in her rich umber eyes? The classic perfection of her bone structure. The waterfall of silken blond locks. The delicacy of her—
A dark cloth whooshed over the glass, hiding her reflection.
Narcissism clawed in protest. His specialty.
As sharp pains ripped through her head, she bellowed, “I’ll strangle you with your entrails!” Viola erupted from the chair, planning to do just that. Nope. The fetters held steady, locking her in place.
Realization dawned. I’m trapped? Panic warred with rage. She didn’t accept captivity well. The daughter of a powerful goddess, Viola had spent the first twenty-six years of her life trapped inside a palace, hidden by her mother from the woman’s more powerful spouse. Hidden from all the worlds. It had been an opulent home, yes, but a prison all the same.
Not long after her escape, she was arrested by an army of gods. She ended up spending a multitude of centuries sealed inside the impenetrable Tartarus, a jailhouse for immortals. Worse, until recently, she’d thought herself responsible for her incarceration. That she had done something horribly wrong and ended the wrong soul at the wrong time. In reality, the demon had hidden the truth from her, and it was something far worse than she could have ever imagined. A truth devastating to her sense of self-worth.