Page 78 of Claimed

The phrase echoes oddly. Eira used something close to it on me once, and the memory irritates me because it arrives with heat rather than anger.

Rowan catches the flicker, and a wry smile twists her lips. ‘I’m bound to your blood brother in ways I don’t intend to explain while your hunter rots beneath our feet and your poison spreads,’ she says. ‘Believe me when I say I know more than I wish about Morrighan’s sired brothers. The Heartshard Glass. The Blood Chrysalis. The prideful refusal to consult what frightens you most.’

‘The Heartshard Glass,’ I echo softly.

Rowan does not blink.

‘How do you know about it?’

‘Ciaran talks in his sleep when fevered, and vampires are astonishingly poor at understanding what witches can hear through blood-soaked stone.’

A muscle tics in my jaw.

‘More accurately,’ she adds, ‘because Morrighan’s work leaves echoes. You know the Glass isn’t just an artefact. It listens. It witnesses. And sometimes it reacts. You should’ve gone to it the first night.’

‘It is broken.’

‘Broken things often tell the truth more readily. Pride keeps you in the Vaults. Fear keeps you from your chambers.’

I step towards her again but she holds up one hand. ‘Hold that temper, vampire. You may strike me after I finish.’

The sheer audacity of the request almost steadies me.

Almost.

‘Your poison,’ she says, ‘is not mortal toxin. It is curse-fed. Old. It doesn’t simply attack your body. Her blood gives you power because something in it resonates with the bond. The poison uses that resonance as cover, then drives you harder into need. Feed, recover, fray, fall. Each cycle deepens the path to Netheris.’

My mouth tastes of ash.

‘I know poisons, too,’ I say. ‘Silver through the blood. Hemlock steeped in holy oil. Witch-salt under the tongue and nightshade cut with grave mould. I have survived toxins designed by priests, assassins, demons and bored courtiers with access to apothecaries. All poisons have mechanics and can be countered if you learn it well enough.’

‘This one has devotion. How do you intend to combat that?’

I stare at her, my insides twisting and sinking.

Devotion…

Rowan’s voice lowers. ‘It was crafted to make your instincts betray you. The more you resist what the mark wants, the more violently your body seeks substitute completion. Eira’s blood offers that substitute. It keeps you awake. It steadies the collapse. It also feeds the cycle if taken without understanding.’

Gods. My entire body rejects the explanation. ‘Impossible.’

‘You asked for truth.’

‘I asked for answers, not witch theatre.’

‘Then hear the plain version. Until I break or redirect the curse-pattern through ritual, you may need her blood to remain sane and awake.’

My heartbeat, useless old habit that it is, seems to stop. ‘Which means what, exactly, witch?’

‘It means that while her blood may be part of what is killing you, until we understand the poison fully, you may need more of the venom to function.’ Rowan’s gaze does not soften. ‘Sleep is dangerous in this state. Each collapse gives Morrighan more access. Perhaps your instincts were right after all when they refused to snap Eira’s neck.’

I am across the room before the last word finishes. This time I do not touch Rowan.

I seize the heavy marble table beside her and hurl it into the far wall with enough force to shatter it into white dust. The noise thunders through the suite. The wards flare.

The Twelve stir but no one dares to enter.

‘She is not venom,’ I snarl. ‘And I will not be drinking from her again.’ Ever.