Page 191 of Ignite
“I don’t understand,”I send back, trying to make sense of why he would trust anything Daimon says.“We can’t trust him.”
“You have to hurry,”Graylen pleads.“All you need is a willing host. I know this doesn’t make sense, but it will.”
I swallow, trying to connect what I’m hearing in my mind with the harsh face of the man in front of me.
“A willing host,”I repeat.
Warmth fills my chest, a feeling that doesn’t seem like my own as confusion and chaos swirl in me.
“Am I not the most willing?”Graylen’svoice grows distant,slowly fading away.“Lunaria, do it now. The second you feel your magic, bind my body so I can’t fight back.”
My chest squeezes at the thought.“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I’m hurting every second this fucking thing controls me.”His face remains passive, the snake still wound around his feet.“Do it. Now.”
An image of Daimon drinking from the chalice flashes into my mind, the cup filled with blood. He told me I would come to enjoy it one day, too.
But I’m not my father.
His blood may run through my veins, but that doesn’t mean I have to be like him.
Daimon brought me here tonight—all to name me as his heir. If his subjects know he drinks blood, what better way to solidify the claim that I’m his than to do it as well?
I won’t hurt Graylen, not even when he isn’t himself. If he’s trying to get me to harm him—orworse…
I clench my teeth, grinding them against one another as Graylen’s arms cage me in.
He spins me, the movement quick and dizzying. It’s nothing like the gentle way he twirled me in the taverns, or the heated touches when we danced together in Crea. This is brutal—uncaring as he flings me around the dance floor.
I almost lose my balance, my foot slipping before he catches me.
“One would think you’d be better at dancing with all that time in Crea,” he breathes against my cheek.
I flinch back, hating that I know this isn’t him.
“Graylen,”I send into his mind as his body pulls me against his chest.
Silence answers me.
“Graylen?”My voice pushes against a wall, the connection between us now silent.
He’s gone—the virus in him is the only thing staring back at me.
Panic crawls up my throat as we dance, my stomach clenching and palms sweating. I rack my brain, trying to figure out how he got through to me in the first place.
The blood.
When his eyes were clear, he cut his hand—making me taste his blood and asking me to drink. Only I didn’t drink; I shoved him away.
But then I could hear him, if only for a moment, and he used that minute to tell me to drink from him again.
Graylen—the fake him—grins at me and says, “The terror in your eyes is so beautiful, my darling weapon.”
Heat surges through me as rage takes over the panic in my chest. It courses through every vein, pumping my heart faster until I’m doing something I never thought I’d do.
I lash out.
My teeth sink into Graylen’s neck, the soft flesh bending and breaking from the force of my bite. He fights against me, but I pull him close and catch him off guard. Thick, metallic liquid seeps onto my tongue, and at first, it makes my stomach turn, the taste sour.
