But I’m breathing in now, and I find I like the taste.
My eyes wrench open, body unfurling, a roaring of storm-ravaged waves filling my ears. I look down at my hands, at the fire that burns beneath the skin, and I feel nothing but untapped, wild, raw power.
The night may have stolen the sun, and Midas may have stolen my ribbons, but I’m not helpless.
And all at once, I’m calling to the magic not under the control of others, not ruled by the sun, but by me.
Because every gilded inch, every piece of metallic glint I’ve wrought is mine.
Another inhale sucks into my lungs as I sag against Midas’s hold, blade forgotten, time suspended. I open my mouth and tip up my hands, calling to the gold I’ve made.
And it answers back.
With fire in my eyes and a flap of furious wings in my chest, I bring my gold thrashing to life.
The floor goes molten; the walls bleed; every goblet, drapery, instrument, chair—they all turn viscous and malleable, melted down by the pure fury that burns in my veins.
Highbell guards scream as their armor suddenly liquefies, and with a flick of my wrist, I make it swallow some whole. More dives down their mouths, gurgling their screams. The ones who run get trapped by the gold floor, sticking them in place and refusing to let them go.
Even the gilt blade held at my throat melts in an instant, Midas jerking back, hand opening with a yelp of surprise.
I whirl around, another flick of my wrist making the gold at his back peel from the walls like thick paint. In an instant, the gluey tendrils reach out and snag him, tearing him off me. His body plasters against the simmering wall as the curtains drip down like gilt molasses and wrap around his torso, tying him in place.
“Auren,” he cries out, but his voice is lost to me. My creature is out in full-force, and she doesn’t answer to him.
I turn back to the pounding feet of the fleeing armored men. With a twisted smile, I take them without mercy, because mercy was never shown to me.
One after the other, I use whatever is closest, the gold going wherever I direct it.
The chandelier drips piercing needles of gilt rain, stabbing one guard straight through. The sconces on the wall melt like candle wax and drip onto the head of another. The ground swallows three more whole, their struggles going still as statues, bodies half buried into the floor with their screams.
I see the skirts of Queen Kaila’s dress as she escapes, her gilded crown, necklace, and shawl left behind in her flee. My creature tenses in irritation, but I turn to the rest of Highbell and Ranhold’s soldiers, ending them with relish.
My pulse pulls at my veins, a demanding pace set by my racing heart.
Because it’s not enough. This release of revenge, this unleashed power, it’s not enough.
An infuriated screech caws in my ear with a thundering boom, every flap of wing making me feel higher and higher, my spirit taken flight on the wind of my storming fury.
I kill every single guard in the room, not stopping until their screams and running steps are trapped in the clammy grip of my gold that crushes and swallows them.
The ballroom has turned into a veritable sea of livid gold waves ready to flood the world.
“Au-Auren…”
My beast and I turn, eyes gleaming as we lock onto Midas, who’s stuck against the wall, body half frozen into it, and my mouth tips up into a vicious smile that’s not my own.
The second he held that blade to my throat, I knew I didn’t just want to escape him. I wanted to destroy him.
His eyes are wild as a golden grasp of fingers holds him in place, his body suspended. He’s the one who’s well and truly helpless.
“Let me go, Auren,” he pleads, his voice high-pitched as he struggles. “You don’t want to do this.”
I feel my head tilt, feel my creature blink. “Oh, but I do.”
My voice singes, landing against his ear and making him twitch with the burn.
“Auren. Precious…”
A cruel, fiery laugh sears my throat. “I’m not your Precious.”
I stand before the man who has done nothing but use me, lie to me, manipulate me, threaten me, and abuse me for over ten years. I look at him, and hate looks with me.
He flinches as I lift my hand and place it against his cheek, letting the ruined strip of my ribbon brush against his skin. I lean in close so that my voice can heat his face, so that he can look me in the eye and see the fury searing my vision. “You can’t cut off the strings of your puppet and still expect it to move for you.”
He balks, the rest of the blood in his face draining away.
I move my palm up and then drag my finger against the crown still resting on his head.