Kingdom of the Wicked (Kingdom of the Wicked #1)(75)

“Don’t come back here again. I’ll go home when I’m ready.” He yanked the dagger out, wiped it across his pants. And waited. “See you in Hell, brother.”

I wasn’t sure what disturbed me more—the cold indifference on Wrath’s face as he watched his brother die, or the brutal efficiency of the attack.

I knew he was dangerous, but seeing it . . .

Lust coughed, glanced down at his mortal wound. And was suddenly gone. As in, vanished completely from sight, like he’d never been here.

I collapsed on the beach, staring at the space the demonic prince once occupied. Tears streamed down my face. I heaved again and Wrath watched impassively. After I stopped retching, he knelt beside me. I couldn’t bring myself to look him in the eye. “Is he dead?”

“No. Being struck with a House blade only severs ties to this realm. He’s back in the kingdom, and won’t be able to use his powers for a while.”

A small blessing amidst the curse. “Good.”

Wrath handed me a cloth to wipe my face. I don’t know where he pulled it from, and I didn’t care. “Lust takes the pleasant emotions you have and inflates them. You might experience a void now. Picture it like a well—his influence rapidly depletes the supply. Where you were once blissfully happy, you’ll feel a sharp contrast. It is a hell in its own way. Giving someone ultimate pleasure, only to rip it from them before they fully grasp it. Done often enough, it drives mortals mad. You should be all right soon enough, though.”

“He wouldn’t have . . .” I fisted my hands at my side. “Made me . . .”

Wrath shook his head. “No.”

“But I felt—there were invisible hands.” I also didn’t forget how hard I’d been trying to take my clothes off in front of Wrath. Or how much I’d wanted him to touch me.

“Manifestations of your desire. They were a part of you, not anyone or anything else.”

There was little comfort in that. Lust might not have violated me physically, but the emotional manipulation was equally bad. He’d twisted goodness until it was cloaked in evil. Wrath was right. It did feel like I’d crashed—like I’d been soaring, and the wind abruptly stopped and I was plunged into the frigid sea depths below. A vast abyss of nothing swallowed me.

I wanted to curl up on the ground, and sleep for eternity. I didn’t care about the curse. Or the nagging feeling I’d learned something important. I no longer worried about my sister’s murder. Or vengeance. Nothing mattered anymore.

I must have said that last part out loud.

Wrath reached over and lightly brushed blood-smeared knuckles against the side of my neck. The exact place I thought he’d kissed me the night he’d saved me from the Viperidae. I shivered and he dropped his hand.

“Valeas.” Be strong. “It will again soon.”





Thirty-Five

“Soon” turned into a week. I hardly noticed the passage of time. I stayed in bed, locked the sunlight out, and refused to bathe. I had little energy and less reason to care. I didn’t visit my family, or the restaurant. I didn’t look for my amulet, or think about the gates of Hell. I barely slept. When I did, I kept hearing a strange voice. When I awoke, the urgent message was forgotten.

I didn’t care. It didn’t matter.

The world felt like it was caving in around me, and sometimes I’d gasp for what felt like hours, unable to draw in enough breath. Life hurt. All pleasure was gone. Anything that once held meaning was long forgotten, buried deep in a void I couldn’t break through. My sister was a faraway memory. Vengeance was rooted in passion, and therefore I had nothing left of it, either.

If Wrath was angry or annoyed by my inability to shake off the last vestiges of his brother’s power, he didn’t let it show. At least not in the ways I expected.

He wasn’t always the most gracious or patient nursemaid. But he was never far, always prowling around near my borrowed room in the ruined palace. Sometimes, when I was in that foggy place between sleep and wakefulness, I saw him camped out in a chair beside my bed. His hair and clothing both rumpled. Once, I thought he held my hand. But when I roused myself from that near-impenetrable haziness, he was gone. He brought food three times a day and when I refused to eat, he’d sit there, glowering until I did. Fighting him took too much energy. So I ate.

Sometimes I’d stare at the careful lines of his tattoos. Up close, the metallic snake that started on his right hand and curled up and around to his shoulder was a masterpiece—each scale shimmered. It was more than gold, there were bits of silver and charcoal—shadows and light. I stared blankly at it while he brought my next meal. I wondered if our matching tattoos would evolve with intricate details over time. I stopped caring.

He held out more food.

Globes of plump red grapes. Hunks of hard cheese. Warmed milk sweetened with honey and spices. Cured meats and other things I stopped paying attention to. He was a mighty hunter bringing home spoils of war. I wondered when he’d give up and let me be.

“When you start doing it on your own.”

I didn’t think I’d asked aloud. I didn’t care if he read my mind. I pushed his handful of grapes away, rolled onto my side. And let the world around me fade.

Somewhere, in the distance, I thought I heard Wrath speaking. He was telling me a story about a witch. One day her heart had been ripped from her, not physically, but emotionally. The void was only filled when she went out hunting for vengeance, and even then her grief was never far. Then, when she’d been close to discovering some long-forgotten secret, she met a terrible prince. He delighted in taking what little pleasure she’d clung to, leaving her empty and vulnerable.