It was wrong of me.
But I wanted it, too.
His hand touched my chest, too, mirroring mine on his, my heartbeat strong and fast beneath his skin.
“In the beginning I doubted you,” he breathed, his words close to my face. “I doubted why the Arachessen would let you leave. But now I see why they didn’t want you. Because you’re just like us. Just as cursed by the past. And that curse just keeps fucking taking, doesn’t it?”
“You’re right.” My mouth twisted into a sneer without my permission—my teeth gritted against my words. I thought I’d feel shame to admit it to myself. I didn’t. I felt so blissfully free. “I understand you. I’m just as broken. Just as angry. I hate them just as much. Nothing will make that alright. Nothing. Once I thought a goddess could. But I was wrong.”
I fought the urge to take the words back as soon as they left my lips. But that was out of guilt. Not because I didn’t feel they were true.
Beneath my palm, the curse inside him pulsed, as if struck.
“But I think you know that, too,” I murmured. “All about goddesses and broken promises. Don’t you?”
He laughed, vicious as torn flesh. “You want to see the truth, Sylina? Do you have room in your heart for another dark story?”
He was taunting me. Like his jeering tone could chase me away. He was wrong.
I thought of the fragments of his vision, still burning in my memory and throbbing in his chest. The snow. The cold. A young vampire man’s head in his hands. And Nyaxia, cold and cruel and drenched in hate.
“I live in dark stories. And I’ve been living in yours for nearly four months. If you’re going to invite me in, invite me.” I pushed against his chest, hard. “I already see you, Atrius. I’m not afraid.”
So quick I wouldn’t even sense the movement, his other hand clutched my hair, tilting my head back toward his. I could feel his words over my lips when he spoke again, low like shifting gravel.
“You want my confessions, seer? Fine. Once, a long time ago, just like you, I thought my goddess would save us. And I gave her everything. Everything.”
The walls, all at once, shattered. And the wave of pain, of rage, of darkness and fear that rolled over me threatened to sweep me away. I had been reaching deep into Atrius’s presence—now, his emotions, such perfect mirrors of my own, surrounded me.
Far in the threads, I sensed an old memory—a city of white and red, powerful spires and moonlit crimson glass windows, framed against mountainous peaks.
“Do you see that?” His mouth came to my ear, breath hard and ragged. “That was my home once. A long time ago. My cursed, damned home. The House of Blood. When I was young, I met a man who was an idealist. A prince. My prince. And some wretched seer’s prophecy said that he would save the House of Blood from itself, and I believed in him.”
His voice sounded like glass breaking, all pain and anger. It poured through my threads, mingling with my own.
“So I followed. I built his army. I led his warriors. People who trusted me. And together, we journeyed to places no mortal, human or vampire, should go.”
The images melted, reformed. I couldn’t even make sense of the next fractured memories—buildings floating in the night sky, shadowy figures walking on misty nothingness, bodiless faces peering through the darkness. All of them too distant, too quick, to capture.
“We were to earn back the love of Nyaxia. We would prove to her that the House of Blood was worthy of her. The things we did—”
A ragged breath. His threads pulsed like a quickening heartbeat, as if horrified and terrified by the memories, even now, even all these years later. Goosebumps rose on my arms.
“No mortals,” he breathed, “should do what we did. We committed acts worthy of fucking gods. Great things. Terrible things. All in Nyaxia’s name. All to prove our love to our goddess. For decades.”
His jaw tightened there, shook against the silence. Every part of his presence railed against this exposure. He was trying to reassemble his defenses, reel in what had broken free.
But I whispered, “And?”
One word. A beckoning hand. An open door.
Why? Why did I want to know, even if it hurt? Even if it made it harder—perhaps impossible—to rebuild my own walls?
He let out a shaky breath. He was trembling, every muscle taut.
“And we went back to her,” he whispered, slowly, between clenched teeth. “My prince and I. We gave her every head she asked for. Every artifact. Every slain monster. Everything. And then we went to our knees to ask for our salvation.” A single, enraged tear slid down his cheek. “And I will never forget the sound of her laugh.”