Page 183 of Eldritch
Gods, he loved her.
For a man who’d spent half his life shackled in chains, he could say with certainty that no other woman had ever made him feel so free.
So alive.
And that alone made her a danger, a threat to anyone who might try to take her from him.
His body hardened all over again, his cock straining against his leathers, hands curled to tight fists. Clenching and flexing. The need to touch her bordered on violence, but as much as he wanted to slip back into that euphoric state, to relive that moment over and over again, he forced himself to push those thoughts aside.
He’d spent half the evening contemplating if he should journey alone to the mountains. She’d be safe in the temple, a fortress compared to the small shacks and abandoned homes he’d seen in the mortal lands, and who knew what they’d encounter along the way. As much as he loathed the annoying sky rat, Raivox would protect her.
And the truth was, she could protect herself. She was strong. Powerful, when she trusted herself.
Zevander had already dressed, resigned to leaving before she woke, and yet, he couldn’t stand the thought of it. Not even with the prospect of him becoming more and more of a threat to her without vivicantem.
She shifted in her sleep, the sheets slipping over the smooth curves of her body. “Zevander.” His name ghosted across her lips as a dreaming murmur and his chest tightened.
She was dreaming of him.
He pushed to his feet, crossed the room, and knelt beside the bed. Her hair spilled across the pillow like a silken shadow, and he brushed back the few tendrils that’d fallen onto her face. Her lips parted for the easy breaths that had her chest rising and falling like a gentle wave, and Zevander fought the urge to seize them, to devour her with a breathless kiss.
Godsblood, she was painfully exquisite.
He couldn’t recall a single vision in his life—sunrise, nor sunset; star shower, nor solstice—that’d roused the same awe he felt from just looking at her. She was the wild pulse in his veins. The steady anchor in his mind. An ungodly obsession he had neither the strength nor desire to resist.
A soft prickling brushed the back of his neck, and Zevander turned toward the door just as the knob rattled and shifted. He shot to his feet and summoned a cloud of smoke, vanishing himself in the dark room as the stranger stepped inside.
A blade led the way, as the intruder quietly tiptoed across the room, his eyes narrowed on Maevyth.
Eyes squeezed shut, Zevander pressed the heel of his palm to his temple, recalling the last time he’d thought someone had come for her while she slept.
Not real. He’s not real.
Except, a low growl from outside warned that Raivox had taken notice, although he hadn’t yet made himself known.
Zevander peeled out of his thoughts and resumed tracking the mortal, who edged closer to the bed.
A little over halfway there, the man paused and glanced around the room, unaware of how truly fucked he was.
A colossal form stepped into the window’s view, and the intruder’s spine snapped straight, his gaze slowly trailing upward toward the furious silver eyes stalking him.
Blade already drawn, Zevander slapped his hand over the man’s mouth, muffling a gasp. Before he could scream, or speak a word and wake her, he leveled the blade at the stranger’s throat. “He’s the least of your worries now,” Zevander whispered in his ear, before dragging him out of the room and down the corridor.
They reached the first level of the temple, and once out of earshot, Zevander released him.
The man dropped to his knees, hands clasped, as if his prayers had any power to save him. “Please. The others…they volunteered me.”
Zevander tipped his head, silently watching him. How pathetic humans could be—powerless, yet so fucking bold at the same time. He summoned a scorpion to the palm of his hand, watching the man’s eyes widen and his jaw tremble when it appeared. He might’ve laughed at the sniveling creature who whimpered like an overgrown child, if not for the fact the stranger had snuck into his room with a blade.
“Please. I wasn’t going to…hurt her. I swear it.” Hands up, the man pushed to his feet and slowly backed away, but it didn’t matter what his intentions were.
In Zevander’s mind, he’d meant to kill Maevyth in her sleep. He marked his own death the moment he’d stepped inside that room.
With quick reflexes, Zevander captured him before he could run and pressed his palm to the stranger’s face again, allowingthe scorpion to crawl inside his mouth. The snake tattoo on the man’s neck almost seemed to writhe as the scorpion made its way down his throat. His muffled screams vibrated over Zevander’s palm, while the scorpion tore through his organs, stinging him with the venom that liquified them. Blood sputtered from his mouth in violent bursts, splashing across the floor.
Zevander quickly hoisted him up over his shoulder, listening to him gag and choke as he carried him down the stairwell to the undercroft. Halfway down the corridor, he heard a wet splash, and turned to see a trail of blood and organs spilled across the stones behind him.
He kept on through the winding path, until he could see the tomb and the flicker of torches clutched by the eager villagers, undoubtedly waiting to find out if their elected assassin had effectively carried out his duty.
