Page 58 of Claim Me
So fucking tired of all this bullshit.
Why is my spirit owed to Klas? I mated him in the real world, fulfilling my familial obligation to protect my sister. It wasn’t my fault that Klas went off the rails and tried to take down a House King. Yet I’m the one being perpetually punished for his actions.
Trapped in a gilded tower.
Interrogated for over a year.
Commanded to die alongside him.
Subjected to walk with him in the afterlife.
No.I refuse.I’m done playing nice.
I need to find a way out of here, to fight back, to save Issy. Torun.
None of this has gone to plan. We were going to fake my death so everyone assumed I left the world to be with Klas, just as I was ordered to do.
And then I was going to help Issy flee. To where, I didn’t know. It was a quickly hatched plan that blew up in my face during the execution.
When I mated four new males as a result of a spell…
I frown at the thought.
I… I can stillfeelthem—my new mates.
Kaspian. Bane. Nox. Nolan.
Does that mean I’m still alive?
The chanting continues to whirl around me, the patriarchs weaving their spell and drowning me in death magic. It prickles and burns, the sensation reminding me of ice cubes dancing along my skin. But rather than leave a cold kiss behind, the touch feels…wet. As though the ice is melting upon contact.
Which has me wondering if I’m truly ethereal here.
How am I melting their magic spell? Is this normal?
If the patriarchs are concerned, they don’t show it. Their voices strengthen, their repetitive words coming faster and creating a whirlpool of smoky mist that dances ominously around me.
Except it dissipates as it touches my skin.
Melting. Draining.Disappearing.
Only to swirl again.
Harsher now.
Colder.
But I seem to burn hotter in response, my soul rejecting their magic.
What is happening?
Hot air billows in my lungs, spreading more of that delicious warmth to my veins and chasing away the chill of the death plane. Dispelling the enchantment.Anchoringme in a plane that shouldn’t exist.
Renewed conflict wars around me as the patriarchs’ chanting grows harsher, louder, more prominent, all while my spirit fights back.
The death stone rumbles beneath me, the frigid atmosphere pulsing in response to my burning form.
A few of the hoods lift to reveal several sets of red eyes.
