“Lanthe, when we get older, you’re going to be mine.”

She blinked up at him from a garland she’d been braiding. “How can I be yours when I’m my own?”

“You’re my mate. Do you know what that means?”

“Sorceri don’t have mates,” she pointed out.

“But you’ll belong to me.”

“That doesn’t sound very fair.”

“It . . . doesn’t?”

“Let’s just stay best friends. That sounds fairer.”

Now they’d been together for less than three days, and she’d already made him doubt the word of Vrekeners. He . . . believed her about the attacks.

He gazed down at her pale hand, curled so delicately on her torso. Those faint scars still filled him with rage. She’d said she had to bite back her screams. He didn’t understand how she could have at her young age. Was it because she’d already grown so used to pain? Or because she’d been that terrified of being discovered?

For centuries, he’d believed her existence had been filled with wanton revelry, a sorceress’s dream. He now knew those years with Omort and his poisons had been hellish for her. Running from Vrekener attacks? Hellish.

As a girl, Melanthe had wept over the death of a single rabbit.

Yet she’d had to scoop up her sister’s brain.

Perhaps Thronos should consider himself fortunate that she hadn’t grown to be evil like every other Sorceri he’d met outside of the Territories.

But evil or not, once she regained her persuasion, she would use it against him. Every day, every hour, her sorcery was replenishing itself, and he was defenseless against it.

If he could get her to the Skye before then, he could harvest the ability with one of his people’s four fire scythes.

She would have even more reason to hate him—but he would never lose her again.

As soon as the thought arose, so did his guilt. Though Vrekeners didn’t believe a power could be a soul, Melanthe did. He could never do that to her. Which made him the biggest hypocrite. He was the one who’d pressed for his kind to collect sorcery, in order to spare lives.

Short of separating her from her persuasion, his only hope of keeping her was to convince her not to use it on him. He exhaled. In other words, she’d be gone at her first opportunity.

How to get her to go with him to his home, and stay there?

His heart stuttered when he realized the answer: she would bond to the father of her offspring.

She was in season—now. Who knew for how much longer?

Yes, impregnating her would be a grave offendment, but desperate times . . .

Even if she managed to escape to Rothkalina, Thronos still had more hope of seeing her. Though Rydstrom the Good was a demon, even he would never bar the doors of his kingdom to a father seeking contact with his child.

Thronos could be inside Melanthe. Tonight. The portal key could wait—until he’d made her his.

Was he succumbing to this reasoning because it was sound? Or because he wanted her so badly he’d commit any wrong to have her?

TWENTY-FOUR

Lanthe cracked open her lids to find Thronos staring down at her, a curious expression on his face. She couldn’t believe she’d passed out. The rhythm of his breaths had lulled her, just as flying with him on the island had done.

“How long was I out?” Though still thirsty and hungry, she felt rested.

“A couple of hours.”

“I’m better now.” Her welts had faded to nothing. “I can walk.”

With clear reluctance, he set her on her feet, steadying her with his big hand covering her shoulder. She glanced around. They were in a dense forest, surrounded by trees so massive, they made redwoods look like saplings. They had to be moonrakers, a type often found on demon planes.

Not only was the stone of this realm black, most of the foliage was onyx and silver. Even the smooth bark of the moonrakers was black.

Though there was little sunlight—just a few rays stole through the canopy—enormous flowers grew in profusion, subtly scenting the air.

She inspected one bloom. Its large dark petals were shiny and open. In the center was a silver pistil the size of a baseball bat. Its pollen sparkled like white-gold dust.

Other weeping-willow-type plants swayed above them, their silver leaves glinting in the scattered spears of sun, like Thronos’s wing mosaics did. As a sorceress obsessed with metal, Lanthe found all these sights mesmerizing, yet her attention couldn’t stray from him for long.

As in the temple, she turned from infinite wonders to face him, a towering Vrekener warlord—who couldn’t intrigue her more. “So, any new threats I should be concerned about?”

He shook his head. “When was the last time you slept for more than an hour or two?”

“Before I was captured three weeks ago. You?”

He shrugged. “Weeks.”

“So what do we do now?”

“I’ve been following this overgrown path deeper into the woods, toward the scent of water,” he told her. “There’s prey all around us. I could catch something, but I doubt you’d eat it.”

“Like the first time you tried to provide for me?”

All these years later, he deadpanned, “The rabbit had it coming.”

A burst of laughter escaped her lips so quickly, so unexpectedly, she almost slapped her hands over her mouth.

“Too soon?”

Another joke! And more . . . “You do remember!”