Kingdom of the Cursed (Kingdom of the Wicked #2)(37)

The fact that he’d taken precautions in his own royal House wasn’t comforting, but I trusted that no one would slip past his wards.

“Makaden had that coming for decades.”

I pulled my attention to Anir. “I imagine he did.”

“Then why…” His voice trailed off as he really looked me over. “You’re angry.”

Wrong. I was furious. It was a wonder steam wasn’t billowing out of my ears.

If I could not handle repugnant creatures like Lord Makaden on my own, I would never gain the respect of this court or any other.

Wrath ought to count his demonic blessings he wasn’t the one standing here with me now. I’d take his precious blade to his throat, tear the clothes from my person and bathe in his warm blood as I slit him ear to ear.

The unexpected pleasure I felt, thinking such a dark, wicked thing yanked me back to my senses. While the flames of my fury banked, the embers of rage remained. I was not nearly as horrified as I should have been by my almost literal bloodlust.

Anir’s mouth twisted up on one side. He must have read the promise of murder flashing in my eyes and found it amusing. He was wise enough not to laugh.

“His private chambers are at the end of this hall. Give him ten minutes, I’m sure he’ll be there by then.”

I was too angry to show my surprise. Of course Wrath placed me close to him. He was keeping a careful watch on his brother’s fiancée. Ever the dutiful soldier. Except for when he’d kissed me before dinner. I doubted that was part of his orders. Though, knowing him, maybe it was another twisted scheme he’d dreamed up to keep me preoccupied and not causing trouble.

I spun on my heel and slammed the door to my suite behind me.





I passed the time by removing Makaden’s blood and gore from my body. I sat at the vanity in my bathing chamber, dipping a linen towel into the crystal washbasin, turning the water there a pinkish red. I dabbed at the remaining dampness while staring at the silent woman in the mirror. I couldn’t find any hint of the girl I’d been before my sister’s murder.

That Emilia had perished in the room with my twin, had had her heart ripped from her, too, and it didn’t appear as if she’d ever return. No matter how hard I fought, who I deceived, or how much of my soul I bargained away, nothing would ever bring my sister back. Even if I succeeded in destroying those who’d hurt Vittoria, I could see no way of ever happily returning to that simple, quiet life. The one where I was most content with my books and recipes.

This new reality felt strange, but fitting. It was a life where I didn’t cringe at violence, only seethed that the punishment that had been dealt was taken from my eager hands. I wondered at death, at the ones we lost and how their loss stole something vital from us in return.

A tear slid down my cheek as I set aside the bloodstained towel.

“Enough,” I said, quietly, forcefully to myself as I stood. I planted my hands on the vanity top and leaned in, glaring at my reflection. “Enough.”

There was no longer any room for sadness or grief in my world. In my heart.

I focused intently on that anger, that spark in my core close to my magic’s source. It was as if a lava pit were bubbling inside me, ready to erupt. I’d never felt my power so strongly and realized it wouldn’t take much to harness it. All I had to do was reach in and grab it.

I concentrated on my magic, imagined pulling it from wherever it originated and turning it into a handful of flame. Instead of fighting myself and forcing it to come, I let go.

Of my thoughts, of my fears. Of my worries.

I released everything except my wrath. That I held on to as if it were the most vital essence in my universe. Because it was the most vital thing in this circle of Hell. If the Prince of Wrath’s anger was a glacier, mine was a raging inferno. And it would not burn out quickly.

I inhaled and exhaled, picturing myself breathing new life into the fire. If I could master my anger, focus on it without emotion, it might burn so powerfully and for so long it could even melt Wrath’s impenetrable ice.

I held my palm out and whispered, “Fiat lux.”

Let there be light.

Blasphemous to some mortals, perhaps. But not to a witch currently residing in the underworld and betrothed to the devil. A tiny ball of rose-gold flames hovered above my palm. It crackled like real fire, but did not burn me. I waited for the pain to begin, for my flesh to bubble and welt. Or char. For Wrath’s ring to melt off my finger.

The fire only burned brighter, pulsed softly as if saying hello.

I stared, unfeeling as it shifted into a flaming flower. For a fraction of a second, I considered throwing it against the wall and watching my room—and all of its fine furnishings—incinerate. Tiny buds of embers catching and blooming into a garden of ash and flame.

I slowly closed my fingers around the burning flower, extinguishing it the way I should have extinguished the light in Makaden’s eyes. I was still too angry to rejoice in what I’d just done. The magic I did not know I could summon. Later, there would be time to celebrate.

Now, I had other things to do. Like confront the demonic master of this house.

That same fury set my feet in motion exactly ten minutes from the time Anir had left. It propelled me out of my room, down the corridor, and made it easy to barge into Wrath’s personal suite as if it were my own.

The door slammed against the wall, setting the candles flickering wildly on the mantel. Wrath was neither startled nor disturbed. He stood with his back to me, undressing. As if he knew I’d come to him, furious instead of scared.