Losa had hoped for affirmation, for the cold confident ring of yes to fall upon her audits. The two males had battled so ferociously, so brutally, that surely the black monster had been killed at the conflict’s climax . . . but then Aindreas—her brave ghost, her knight in ivory armor—seemed to sag in defeat, words tired and guarded when they fell from his maw. “No . . . he is not.” Immediately Losa looked away, severing eye contact as if with a guillotine. Her teeth clamped shut, hard, against the vicious question that wanted to claw its way from her throat. Why not? Why hadn’t Aindreas slain the poltergeist while he had the chance? Didn’t that beast, that demon deserve it? The sable princess was already trembling violently, but now those shivers stilled into more subtle tremors of barely suppressed rage as she felt the glass shards of her soul harden into stone. Into steel. Anger and grief and terror forged something solid and merciless within Losa’s bruised, heartsick breast, and she gripped it the way a warrior grips a dagger. Aindreas was allowing her torturer to live. He had the opportunity to destroy him, to prevent him from ever harming anyone ever again, and here he was telling her that he would not act upon it.

The white gladiator could not see the celestial fire that ignited within the brilliant galaxies of her irises—the passionate incandescence marking her as an Empress that might have been feared if she still held her throne. A savage desire for justice flared within her—a massive, all-consuming star that flared its place ruthlessly inside the constellation of her being. For though Losa had been born to be a kind and forgiving Monarch, though gentleness rested beneath the turmoil of her confusion, she contained a stunning capacity for vengeance that knew no rival. It would have served her well in a different life, when she would have been called upon to defend her subjects and fight for her kingdom’s place in the world. She might have been great. But here on this bank, swathed in mud and a predator’s lust, Losa could only blaze in silence, her wrath consuming her from the inside out.

The earthen bird kept her glowing glare trained on the mire before her while Aindreas went back to “talk” to her rapist. Her velvets twitched with the desire to snarl. It took an enormous flex of willpower not to whirl on Aindreas and expel her ire in scorching vitriol when he returned—and she thanked the gods she hadn’t, because the simple compassion in his ocean-blue eyes doused her rage instantly. Losa swallowed nervously, concern for his wellbeing replacing the initial sting of betrayal. She parted her maw to ask if he was all right, but he beat her to the kill.

A blush surged beneath the filthy canvas of her fur. Her lyrics scratched pitifully through her raw throat, barely more than a wounded whisper. “But you’re . . . I couldn’t . . .” She noted the grievous injuries carved into his underside and her own abdomen clenched in wrenching empathy. Losa would not be able to walk on her own. She physically couldn’t. Yet the prospect of further endangering Aindreas’s life with her own selfish needs . . . if her added weight exacerbated those hideous trenches and ripped them deeper . . . a horrified shudder rippled down her spine. The dark lass had thought all her tears were dry after the sobs that devil had pulled from her, and was ashamed to realize she still had enough to shed when she thought about harming Aindreas. Their situation seemed utterly hopeless. “You’re so hurt,” whimpered the sylph, guilt thickening her voice. “How can I ask you to do any of that for me?”

Losa prepared to order him to leave—as much as being alone anywhere near the unconscious heathen scared her to her core—except Aindreas was already lowering himself to accommodate her. All at once she understood that refusing his offer would cause more trouble than accepting it; grimacing with her own agony, and the mortification of using Aindreas at all, Losa awkwardly pushed herself upright so that she could drape across the expanse of his back. The ballerina was so tiny in comparison to the pallid dragon that her paws dangled in the air on either side of his chest. He stood not a second later, vacillating only slightly, before beginning the trek toward his father’s territory . . .

A journey Losa was only half-conscious for. She experienced each misstep and wince that vibrated up Aindreas’s frame like a blow to her own body; coupled with the hot agony racing through her nerves it was a wonder the chocolate-toned sheila didn’t faint dead away. She hardly registered the fact of their crossing, that vast tapestry of scents weaving a meaningless picture into her foggy brain. The terrible clarity that had pierced her during the onyx monster’s conquest had faded . . . dulled . . . and the characteristic spell of insanity that followed her everywhere pounced upon its vulnerable victim. Her adrenaline high had now officially bled into nothingness, leaving a crippling exhaustion behind. At one point her mismatched portals slid toward Aindreas’s skull in distant shock, as if she had completely forgotten who he was and where he was taking her. She went to struggle, and gasped in pain as the wiggling motion jarred her dislocated limb. When did that happen? Was I . . . and the recent memory slammed into her brain and for another few chaotic seconds Losa was fighting to stay awake.

She glanced upward at the sudden sound of a fae’s voice, heart pounding in her chest, but the stranger disappeared as quickly as she arrived. Aindreas did not appear bothered by the wolfess . . . and perhaps the wolfess had just been Losa’s feverish imagination . . . at the very least, the delicate dancer was overwhelmingly grateful to have a den to rest in. She slipped gracelessly from her perch on the phantom’s back, plopping into a pile next to him, her injured leg held an uncomfortable angle from the rest of her thin silhouette. “Who was that?” Losa murmured in her rough, dazed voice, gazing out from the den’s entrance. The smell of herbs covered her senses like a comforting blanket, their incredible aromas delicious and beautifully complex. Losa wanted to roll in them until the revolting cologne smeared into her pelt was erased forever. “Aindreas . . . ?”

The poor ghost was utterly unconscious. Seeing no better course of action, the espresso-hued faeling sighed and lay her head upon his shoulder, trying to drift into an uneasy sleep.