Page 45 of Taken
The prophecy isn’t some romantic folly.
It is a lever. If I pull it, something may shift in my favor.
If I fail, I will have traded a human soul for nothing but the taste of salt on my lips.
And yet—a different pull answers, older and less rational.
When she breathes, the tide inside me stirs with a want that has nothing to do with crowns.
She is soft and fierce in the same breath, human in ways that the laws of power can’t compute.
The feel of her fingers closing around mine now anchors me in ways my runes never will.
The knowledge that I can undo her—bind her, demand more than consent—sits like coal behind my sternum.
It is monstrous and inhuman and impossible to ignore.
Aloysious and the priests speak words I barely hear. The moon presses through the skylight.
Its light is an accusation and a benediction both.
Around me, faces lean forward.
I step, because the ritual requires motion as much as voice.
My feet move me down the long aisle, and the white silk underfoot rustles like a tide pulling back, exposing the truth beneath.
She looks wary when I draw her near.
There is sadness on her face, a wary dignity that shames my methods.
The sight of it cuts my chest the way sea-ice cuts a hull.
I promised myself I would not be the kind of Lord who breaks what he claims to save.
I promised benevolence like a talisman.
And yet I have taken her peace of mind, her certainties, everything she knows.
And I stand accused in my own heart.
“I beg you, Telya, whatever I ask of you tonight, render it to me,” I murmur, low enough for her ears only.
“You have some nerve asking me for anything,” she says, sharp as a breaking wave.
A little of my composure cracks at that.
There is steel in her retort, and something fiercer—an honest, human indignation.
My lips twitch despite myself.
I had not expected her to answer with that flavor of bravery.
I had expected tears, entreaties, a bargaining that spells out every human plea for mercy.
Instead, she gives me sass.
It both infuriates and disarms me.
