Page 87 of Monster's Pretty Bride

I storm down the halls of the sanctuary, my heart hammering. Think. If Naranus left, he had a reason. He wouldn’t run, not unless.

My steps are slow. A terrible thought curls through me.

He’s looking for a way to end this himself.

A strangled sound escapes me. No.

I don’t even realize I’ve stopped moving until Catalina grabs my arm again. “Eryss,” she rasps. “If we don’t stop them… If we don’t kill them first…”

I yank away, spinning to face her. “Who is controlling you?”

Catalina flinches, her body taut with tension.

Her lips part, hesitation in her gaze. And then, too quickly, she schools her features into a mask of cold indifference.

“Find Naranus,” she says instead, voice clipped. “You don’t have much time.”

Something slithers in my gut. A warning. A shadow of doubt.

But I shove it aside. There’s no time for this.

I push past her, forcing my body into motion. I need to find him.

Before the curse kills him. Before they do.

39

NARANUS

The sky is still bruised with the colors of night when I leave the sanctuary. The world is quiet, hushed in a way that feels unnatural, as if the very land is holding its breath, waiting.

I don’t say goodbye.

I can’t.

Not when her scent is still on my skin, still woven into the fabric of my being. Not when every part of me wants to stay, to hold onto the impossible thing we created last night.

Weak.

The word slithers through me like a curse, an accusation.

I let her in. I let her touch something inside me I swore would never be touched.

But I can’t allow her to change my course. She refuses to kill me, so I will find another way. If she won’t be my executioner, war will. It will be the same outcome, right? My death, regardless of how it happened, will free her magic.

I force my body forward, each step sending a sharp lance of pain through my limbs. The curse is accelerating, spreading like wildfire beneath my stone skin. My body is cracking apart, magic fraying at the edges.

And still, I move.

I find more of them in the ruins of an old outpost, a fraction of what remains of my warriors. Some of my warriors follow me, once that reached the sanctuary. They’re ready to go to war.

They are wounded, broken, but standing.

Their eyes flick toward me as I approach, their gazes filled with grim understanding. They can see it, the curse eating away at me, just as it is to them.

“We thought you were dead,” Rhyzek, a broad-shouldered warrior with cracked wings, says. His voice is hoarse, as if he hasn’t spoken in days. “The stronghold fell.”

“I don’t die that easily,” I rasp, stepping into the ruined structure. “And neither do you.”

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