Page 70 of Ruin of Revenants

Rage rippled through our bond. Before I could rise from the bed, Archer’s hand shot out, fingers wrapping around my throat.

Gasping, I tried and failed to rear backward.

“Thief.” His eyes burned with accusation and fury. “Did you steal my magic?”

Finally. Something unfurled within me, like a serpent awakening and uncoiling itself, stretching and preparing to strike at its prey. Something hardened in me, something born of fear and hurt and the need for justice for my kind, something unleashed because of my ache for freedom and home and peace. Finally, he is angry like I am. Finally, I am the one with power.

“I used a potion.” I drew a deep breath, caught between relief that Archer wasn’t squeezing and terror that he’d curse the consequences to himself in his anger and hurt me. “Release me.”

The magical hold I’d had on Archer was already gone, because he watched me warily, hesitating. Like he thought if he let go, I’d surprise him with another attack.

Then his shoulders drooped, his eyes draining of animosity. A new look filled them with a different kind of intensity, one more unnerving than his loathing. It was almost like hurt. Betrayal. His hand dropped from my neck. “Right. All manipulation and trickery,” he muttered. The awful sorrow and hopelessness he’d felt earlier assailed me all over again, and I had to physically brace myself against their weight.

Nerves tangled in my stomach. I’d wanted to make him vow not to harm another phoenix shifter ever again, to not reveal the location of my home after our visit, but I’d lost my chance. I was out of potion, and after this, he’d never trust me again.

Archer’s smirk turned cruel as I turned to retreat. “Oh, Feathers. I think you’ve made a mistake.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Archer

The betrayal was bitter and sharp, consuming me with more grief than I would have expected when I’d only just begun to think maybe I was falling for Isoria. But the anger—that was comforting.

Of course she tricked you. That’s what death-lovers do, I thought darkly.

But as I stood, following her across the room and half-relishing her fear as it shuddered through our bond, I was still half-drowned with sorrow.

“You have to free Bren,” she choked out, backing up against the wall. “Follow my orders.”

My smile was all sharp edges, like if I wasn’t careful, I’d cut myself on it. It was fitting, considering my foolish heart was bleeding out inside my aching chest. “You didn’t say anything about doing it immediately.” I leaned forward, pressing my hands against the wall to cage her in. “How long have you been manipulating me?”

She blinked rapidly, as if trying to keep the tears at bay. “Please.”

She was acting—again. Just as she had with our passionate kisses, with her tender ways. Was anything about her true?

“How long, Isa?” I didn’t know why I used her nickname. Maybe it was a symptom of the last, dying gasp of my hope. Hope that she’d reveal a tender side and wasn’t totally unfeeling.

“I didn’t find the potion until I was out with your sister,” she said. “When I saw my brother, I was desperate.”

“You didn’t think you could ask me.”

“You hunt phoenixes. Why would you free Bren?”

I squeezed my eyes shut. Could I blame her? What reason did she have to trust me? “I would have freed him,” I muttered, but it hardly mattered now. There was no proving myself when I was magic-bound to save him now.

Stepping back, I put distance between us so Isoria could pull away from the wall and approach the doorway. “He’s my brother,” she retorted. “I couldn’t take any risks.”

And the worst part of all of this was that I couldn’t even blame her.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Isoria

Piercing sun rays seared against my closed eyelids until, with a groan, I gave in and opened my eyes. Somehow, despite my nerves as I’d waited for Archer to follow through on his vow and rescue Brenton, I’d tossed and turned in my bed until exhaustion had claimed me.

Voices deeper in Archer’s quarters drew me out of bed. I seized a robe from the closet and threw it on.

I followed the hum of conversation to Archer’s bedroom, where the prince himself was seated in a window seat, paging irritably through a book. Another form was in the armchair before the fire, facing away from me. Orchid moved nearby, setting a tray of steaming tea, a pitcher of water, and a plate with an assortment of food on a low table.