*Ella*
I open my eyes, blinking into the eerie green light of the cramped room I was thrown into a few hours ago. The walls are made of stone and drip with condensation. I look up at the wooden ceiling where streaks of light filter down and cause the floor to dance with pockets of pale gray. The ceiling is a trap door; the room I’m in is an outdoor cellar. A set of slimy stairs lead up to the ceiling, the slime now covered with muddy footprints.
There’s nothing down here but me. No chair, bed, bathroom bucket, or food. The bastards who dragged me here stripped me of the coat I’d been wearing, and the chilly fall air bites into my skin. My hands, bound by iron shackles behind my back, are numb from the cold.
It’s raining now. Water has been dripping through the ceiling, but now rain pelts the wooden boards above my head so violently it rattles.
I close my eyes and imagine my studio, my paintings, mentally going through stacks of canvases and my inventory of paint. I’m just trying to distract myself at this point. District myself from giving up and using my powers. What would the consequences be, I wonder?
I can’t risk it, not when I have no idea where Amanda is right now.
I rest my head against the wall and try not to breathe too deeply. It stinks down here–like mildew, blood, and other foul things I’d rather not mention.
Again, I let my mind drift. I imagine curling my toes in the hot, white sand on the beaches of Maatua. I imagine walking through the castle back in Crescent Falls, running my fingertips along the railing of the grand staircase in the foyer. I imagine walking into the throne room during a ball, wearing the tight red dress my dad ordered me to change out of.
I imagine Ryatt turning to me as I walk through the crowd, that fated moment when our eyes locked for the very first time.
It had been like a magnet pulling us together. Like everything in the room faded, and it was just the two of us. Like time had stopped and I–I had a feeling I’d never had before. I was only nineteen at the time, too young to feel the mate bond, far too young. But something shifted in me, something deep and primal igniting in my soul that second he turned to me and looked at me with those stunning gray eyes.
I knew, from that moment, that I was his.
I looked for him. I asked Isaac who he was, but Isaac didn’t remember seeing a man like him at the ball. Ryatt’s golden-tan skin, black hair, and sharp jaw hadn’t rung alarm bells in the minds of everyone–servants included–who I dared ask.
It was like I’d seen a ghost, and in reality I had. He hadn’t really been there. He had been an illusion.
How had he done it? I think about that often, his powers, what he can do and why I’m tied to him. Are our powers similar? Do we mirror or complement each other?
My body relaxes as my mind continues to wander, flipping through memories like pages of a book, and settles on the memory of a dream I like to keep locked away. Because in that dream, he touches me. His knuckles smooth over my bare upper arm. He kisses my shoulder, his lips warm and soft on my skin as he brushes my hair to the side and kisses up my neck. I turn my head away, giving him better access, moaning his name when his teeth graze my skin.
His hands travel to my naked hips, holding me against him so my back is to his chest.
“You belong to me,” he says in my ear, the words like thrumming, seductive music. He caresses my breasts, full and heavy in his hands, and exhales in a growl that seems to echo around us.
He nudges my legs apart with his knee, leaning over me with one hand gripping the railing along a great, wide balcony with views of a gleaming, night swept city far below us. Beyond, snowcapped mountains touch the stars.
“Ella.” He breathes, my name a prayer on his lips. “My Ella.”
“Yours,” I whisper, then suck in a breath as his hand travels lower, stroking me between the thighs.
He groans with satisfaction at how wet I am for him, how ready I am and how much I want him. Need him.
In the dream, I don’t know his name. He’s just the man from the ball I’d resigned myself to never seeing again.
And that city below us is nothing but a dream. The chill in the air and the glorious house built into the mountains is something I simply made up in my mind.
And then it’s over, fading from view, and I’m sucked right back into glaring reality.
I open my eyes as the trapdoor above me opens, and I’m pummeled by rain, sharp and ice cold. I can do nothing to shield myself from it. Heavy footsteps stomp down the stairs, and the Magpie comes into view. Well, where I’m kneeling on the cold ground, all I can see are his daggers and blades that hang from his belt.
He slaps me across the face so hard I see stars for a moment. It hurts, badly, and my eyes sting with tears as my cheek throbs.
He clicks his tongue and crouches to look me in the eyes. “You didn’t tell me you were so fucking valuable, little pet.”
I bite down on my lower lip to stop myself from saying anything I’ll regret.
He reaches out and runs his finger through my hair, pulling the wet, dark brown strands loose from my braid. “Princess Ella. That’s your name, isn’t it? It was the eyes that gave it away. I’ve never seen anyone with eyes the color of turquoise before. Very odd. Beautiful, but odd. And here I thought you’d fetch me some coin, a little here, a little there if I kept you for the use of passing travelers, but now–”
His rancid breath stuns my senses as he leans in to whisper in my ear, “You’re the king’s pet, aren’t you princess?”
“I belong to no king,” I spit, baring my teeth at him.
We’re nearly nose to nose, and he laughs, showcases his yellowing teeth. “Oh, but you do. The Alpha King is looking for you. He has warriors roaming around in these parts. Some just came by, looking for some entertainment before they moved on. They asked if I’d seen you, and sure enough, I have the blue-eyed princess of Crescent Falls in my cellar.” He chuckles, leaning away from me and rising to his full height. “I don’t mean to just give you over to them, though.”
He shakes his head, smiling at himself before continuing, “I mean to be a rich man for all my troubles. You and I are going to the king directly.”
“Where is Amanda?”
Another slap makes my vision darken around the edges. The pain is worse this time. My teeth go through my lip and blood pools in my mouth. I cry out, unable to stop myself.
“She’s gone.”
I spit blood and look up at him, fire beginning to glow behind my eyes. “Where is she?” I growl, tasting blood, knowing my teeth are covered in it. The pain ignites my powers. I can’t hold them back. I feel them creeping through my body, trying to push past the mental barriers I’d spent my life developing in order to keep my powers at bay.
“She’s too pretty to keep, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“You took her to an auction, didn’t you? You fucking monster–”
When he slaps me this time, it doesn’t hurt.
Only because my powers surge, filling the room. He screams as his hand dissolves into embers that catch on his clothing and ignite. The Magpie stumbles backward at the same moment my powers melt through my iron shackles, and I’m free. Free, and murderous.
He’s on fire. He tries to climb up the stairs, to roll across the wet steps. Smoke and steam billow from him as the rain starts to put out the flames.
But I’m loose, and right behind him.
He whirls around with a dagger in his good hand and presses it to my throat. I immediately stop moving, the silver blade searing my skin. He presses it deeper, forcing me to take a step back. His eyes are wild with pain and rage. “You fucking witch!”
Suddenly, his eyes go wide and his mouth pops open, forming a perfect O. He drops the knife, and it clatters to the ground, bouncing off the steps before landing at my feet.
His chest… sizzles, then mist begins to pour from the center of his belly. He jerks, a pained cry escaping his lips before he stumbles forward off the stairs and falls face first at my feet, right on top of the knife he’d just been holding to my throat.
I look up at the stairs. A man dressed in black, his face shielded by a hood, is holding a sword that looks like it’s made of night. The blade is black–the sucking, depthless kind of black I’ve never been able to recreate in my paintings, and the handle is woven with gems of deep blue and purple. The blade is coated with the Magpie’s blood as the man takes another step down into the cellar, then another, then he stops.
Ryatt removes his hood and looks at me, those devastating gray eyes searching my face. Something in my heart cracks at the way he’s looking at me right now. As my mate, could he sense my pain when the Magpie hit me? Is that why he looks like he’s ready to shred this place, shred this man into the tiniest pieces, and leave nothing behind?
Relief sweeps over me, but it’s clouded by the crippling anxiety I feel over facing him again. He finally drops his gaze from my face and looks down at the Magpie.
I do too but yelp in surprise. There’s nothing left of him but a pile of ash and glowing embers.
Ryatt sheaths the sword in one graceful, trained movement. His eyes meet mine again, a muscle in his jaw flexing. He’s beautiful–rugged, and scarred, but beautiful. His dark lashes only make his eyes more intense as he takes another step toward me, his gaze dropping to gauge whether or not I’m injured. His black hair falls in gentle, loose curls over his forehead, the rest of it tied back with a cord of leather. He looks back up at me, tilting his head. I close my eyes as he reaches out and takes my chin in his hand and turns my face from side to side, looking at the bruises forming there.
He lets out his breath in a growl that rattles the cellar and lets me go. “I told you not to let go of my hand,” he says in a tone that sends shivers licking up and down my spine.