Ruthless Vows (Letters of Enchantment, Book 2)

Roman stirred, his face pressed against warm stone. He felt heavy, weighed down. His head was aching, his mouth parched. The air tasted of sulfur and rot, and he could hear the hiss of steam, the boil of liquid.

He opened his eyes and saw that he was in the heart of the under realm. Yellow bubbling pools, cloying shadows, scattered skeletons, dancing steam. How odd that it felt familiar to him. But when he tried to move his hands, he felt resistance, followed by a clang of iron on rock.

Roman studied his body like it wasn’t his. He was too numb to acknowledge what he saw at first, but then the past came rushing back over him like a cold, sobering tide.

He remembered Iris sitting on the desk at the Tribune, her legs wrapped around him, her hands in his hair as they came together. He remembered Dacre’s accusations and questions in the parlor. He remembered how he had answered, regrets peeling away like calloused skin, and the agony that had followed.

This was the fate of Dacre’s traitors. To slowly die, shackled amongst steam and shadows.

No, Roman thought, yanking on the chains. They were fastened to both his wrists, their rusted edges cutting into his skin. He tried to stand but they weren’t long enough to permit him to, and old, brittle bones crunched beneath his boots.

He yanked on the chains again, feeling blood begin to drip down his forearms.

There was a whoosh of icy air above him.

He froze, but he could see the shadow of wings rippling over the sulfur pools. The eithral screeched, a sound that made the hair rise on Roman’s arms.

Don’t move, Kitt. Don’t speak, don’t move.

Iris’s voice whispered through him. A memory of a golden field, her body against his as she held him to the earth. Breathing with him. Commanding him, desperate to keep him alive.

Roman eased himself back down to the stone floor and sat among the bones. But he could see the eithral circling back, as if the creature sensed he was near and was intent on finding him.

Don’t move.

Roman closed his eyes, sweat trickling down his temples.

This was the fate of Dacre’s traitors. The people who defied him or disagreed with him. The ones who broke away from his hold.

Dacre didn’t heal their lingering wounds. He didn’t mask their pain and wipe their memories again, forcing them to start anew.

He fed them to his monsters.