Series: Lords of Rathe Series by Meagan Brandy
Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 95227 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95227 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
“Don’t play games, girl. I’m already itching to use my hands on someone again. Share.”
“Share…” She blinks and then her eyes widen. “Wait, you want a cigarette.”
I glare because—is that what I’m asking for?
“You’re in the Royal Wing.” She starts to shake her head. “I’m going to go ahead and say you shouldn’t be smoking. There is a designated space for that.”
“There is ?” I fake innocence. “Well, do I look like someone who gives a fuck about designated spaces…” I trail, waiting for her name.
“Sahara.”
“Sahara.”
Her tongue dampens her bottom lip before she rolls her eyes and dives into her pocket, whipping out a small tin.
I snatch it and flick it open. Plucking one of the skinny trunks out, I place it between my lips and light the end with a flick of my wrist. “Tell me, Sahara. How the fuck do I work this damn tub?”
The girl’s fiery brows jump on her pretty face. Slowly, almost hesitantly, she looks me over for the first time.
Her nose twitches at the sight of my boots, the daggers tucked into them, and the sheath that’s strapped to my upper thigh. Her gaze traces the strips of leather across my stomach, up over my chest, and then follows the length of my braided hair, settling on the two tiny stones embedded in the skin beside my temples.
Finally, her eyes come back to mine as she speaks with a low tremor. “Where did you come from?”
My chuckle is pitch-black, and I hold a hand out for the little creature of a girl. “Hell, maiden girl. Hell. Now, about this whole getting ready thing…”
…
The bedroom door crashes open just as I pluck another “cigarette” —weird name honestly—from the tin.
Sahara freezes, her attention darting between me and my blood-stained shirt, then down at her dead friend, who I borrowed it from. “Ah…I don’t think that’s quite what they had in mind when they said make you presentable…”
Inhaling, I allow the smoke to sear through my lungs before my mouth forms a perfect O and I blow smoke rings at her pale face. “Listen. I don’t really want to kill you, and that’s an unfamiliar feeling, so this could be fleeting. Don’t ruin it by trying to tell me what to wear. I won’t listen anyway, and you’ll just end up…you know. Dead. Probably.”
I keep the sheath at my thigh, strapped over the fishnet tights and, since there was no leather in the closet, I decided to tear mine into a makeshift skirt. “It truly is a great shirt.”
“There’s, like”—Sahara gestures to the front with trembling fingers—“blood splatter all over it?”
I turn, blinking innocently, and place my hands on her delicate shoulders. “Oh no. What ever will we do about that?” A burst of manic laughter spills from me as I spin around. I’m ready to roll. “So now what, little maiden?”
“Now, we wait.”
Chapter Four
Legend
The moment I step into the war room, a smug grin still tugging at the edge of my mouth, the air turns heavy.
Creed stops mid-sentence. His knuckles blanch as he grips the armrest of his throne. That crown of bone-light shimmers as if it sprouted straight out of his goddamn skull, though it’s merely demonic smoke suspended above his head. Just like my brothers. Just like mine.
That shit is gonna take some getting used to, but it is the war room after all, and the only way our ancestors can hear our calls.
Is our father among them yet?
I refocus on my brothers, just in time to catch Knight’s jaw tick as he leans forward, expression unreadable but eyes narrowed. Always calculating. Always quiet.
Sinner’s sharp laugh cuts the air, shattering the tension. He drowns the last gulp from a gnarled black bottle, then slams it onto the stone with such force that the surface cracks beneath it.
“Where the hell did you go?” Creed fires first, voice cold and sharp as forged iron.
Knight’s head cocks, like a predator sniffing out a lie. “Why are you late?”
“Did you just”—Sinner grins, teeth flashing like a blade—“fuck or something?”
I chuckle low, dragging the scent of ash and adrenaline with me as I cross the obsidian-slick floor. There’s a seat waiting at the table—massive, claw-footed, carved from the remains of some long-dead Leviathan no one’s seen in over a thousand years. Its surface ripples faintly as I approach, reacting to the magic bleeding off me.
Good. It remembers who I am.
I drop into the chair and kick my boots up onto the tabletop. The moment the soles hit, the Leviathan bone snarls. It pulses a muted red beneath the translucent surface, ancient veins still humming with magic that doesn’t quite know if it wants to kill or obey.
“Relax,” I mutter to the thing. “We’ve both bled enough today.”
Creed exhales sharply through his nose. “Legend. You disappeared for days with no explanation. No word.”