“Drink,” he commanded.
Blythe thrashed, shaking her head violently. Drink from the one who’d delivered such anguish? No. She needed Roux. The Astra. Her Astra. She wanted his stare and his intensity and his strength and his innocence and his ferocity and his rusty laugh and his unintentional jokes. Where was he?
“Drink.” A harsher command with frayed edges. “Feed.”
No!
Something warm and wet dripped upon her lips. The metallic scent drew out her tongue, and there was no stopping it. At the sweet taste of warm blood and crackling power, Blythe almost grabbed onto the source and bit down. But still she fought him.Need Roux!
“Calm for me, Lyla. Calm. Please. Breathe deep. Exhale. Inhale again. That’s my good girl.”
That nickname. She’d missed it more than she could ever admit. And the blood. She knew and loved the taste. Yes? She sniffed. Mmm. She did! It was Roux’s. A tantalizing blend of cedarwood and spiced oranges. He was here, caring for her, the tormentor gone.
She sagged into a puddle of goo. As the droplets of his blood turned into a river, she opened wide, guzzling greedily.
“Yes. Feed from me,” he told her. “Take my soul, too, beauty.”
Yes. Feed on Roux. She locked her mouth on his flesh and sucked a tendril of decadent, powerful soul. Most of her weakness fled in an instant, and yet her fatigue remained. Last night’s lack of rest had caught up with her. But she wasn’t worried. The Astra was here, and he was touching her. All would be well.
Blythe let herself drift into oblivion.
26
THE ARRIVAL
As the harphantom rested in bed, Roux stormed through the bedroom. Roaring inwardly with a rage like no other, he flipped over the desk and shredded the wood with his claws. Smashed the dresser. Punched holes in several walls. Dismantled his chair. Despite the noise, Blythe continued to rest.
His thoughts refused to settle. He’d hurt her. Hurt her so bad. How could he do such a terrible thing to hisgravita? How?
The worst part and something she might not ever forgive once she awoke? Using the torture session to question her about her feelings for him. A cowardly, vindictive, foolish move. Hedeservedher hatred.
Knowing his requirement to ask the same questions of every female, as well as inflict the same amount of injury the same way, he’d started with Carrigan. She, of course, hadn’t known what he’d even meant when he’d asked if she hated and desired him. But it was as she’d struggled to make sense of his words while combating pure agony that he’d begun to understand the crux of his mistake. He would rather not know the truth than torment hisgravitalike this. Yet he had been stuck, one hundred percent locked into his path, and there’d been no going back. With every combatant, his dread of Blythe’s turn had magnified.
Roaring inwardly again, he punched new holes in the walls. Dust and debris coated the air. His knuckles shattered, skin splitting. Veins and an artery were severed in his wrist. Sprays of blood wet the floor before he healed.
“Roux?”
His heart stuttered in his chest. He flashed to the side of the bed. Her eyes remained closed, but any semblance of calm had left her. She tossed and turned; her features pinched.
“I’m here, Lyla. I’m here,” he said, caressing her brow.
Though he’d done nothing to warrant the comfort of her nearness, he stretched out on the mattress and gathered hisgravitainto his arms. Just like that. She sighed with contentment and settled against him.
A tendril of hope unfurled. Maybe he wasn’t doomed to lose her?
He clutched her close, afraid to let go. A sharp scream erupted inside his head, reminding him of his earlier roars and how the two possessed the same tone and tenor. As if Roux himself was somehow the escapee—or his twin was. But he knew better. His brother had never tasted freedom. Had he? Unlike the others, Rowan preferred incarceration to freedom. No surer way to torment Roux for eternity.
Frowning, needing an escape from his current reality, he did something he despised. He turned his attention inward and ventured down, down, down to the darkest recesses of his mind. The closer he came to the prison, the louder the symphony of moans, groans, and grunts became. As his mental eyes adjusted to the gloom, a barred wall appeared, a pristine Rowan seated beyond them.
It was like seeing his childhood self in a mirror. Always a shock and horror.
“Hello, brother,” Rowan crooned with a wicked grin. “I must admit, I expected you sooner.”
He appeared exactly as he’d looked before he’d died: nine years old, dressed in a leather suit bestowed upon him by their father. At the moment, he leaned against the cell’s back wall, a leg extended, with the other bent at the knee, acting as a resting place for an elbow.
The smug superiority he evinced scraped at Roux’s nerves. “Have you left your cage?”
“No pleasantries, then? No warm-up before we dive into what it is you seek from me?” Rowan shrugged his shoulders. He might look nine, but he’d matured over the centuries. He stood and stretched. “Okay. I’ll play. No, I haven’t left my cage.”