Kaelith’s smirk deepened. “Yes, I do,” he said, voice curling with amusement. “They cover every part of me.”
He stepped closer, cupping my face with surprising gentleness. “Cut my wrists,” he said.
I recoiled slightly. “What? Why?”
“Cut them,” he repeated, voice still soft, but iron hidden underneath. He extended his arms toward me, palms up.
I swallowed hard.“As much as I would love to harm you, I’m not doing that until you explain what this place is and why you brought me here.”
Kaelith stared at me so long the silence became uncomfortable, before tilting his head and biting his lower lip as if to keep from smiling.
“I cannot tell you.”
“Then I’m not doing anything.” I turned to leave the way we came in but the entrance had vanished.
My fingers tightened around the dagger. “You see, Aurelia, no one knows this room exists. No one. Not the Shadow Elves, not the Keepers. Not Malachi,” he said softly. “My father did not know of this room. The goddesses do not know of this room. You’re alone and stuck with me here until you do as I ask.”
“Then just tell me…”
“I cannot!” Blood began dripping from his nose. Wiping it away with his thumb, he walked toward me until I was looking up at him. Grabbing my face, he growled. “Do not ask me again.”
“Now, cut me,” he demanded.
My fingers trembled as I pressed the tip of the dagger into his wrist—just enough to draw a bead of blood, dark in the torchlight. The magic shivered between us, waiting for the question that would pull it tight. I kept my mouth shut.
Truthblades demand balance—any truth I cut out of him would give him the right to carve one out of me.
“Good,” Kaelith said, voice approving.
My stomach knotted tighter with every heartbeat. Something felt wrong.
“Give me the dagger,” Kaelith said, holding out his hand.
I hesitated but placed the blade into his waiting palm.
“You are powerful, Aurelia,” he said, voice thick with hunger. “I can feel it beneath your skin. I intend to harness that.”
He set the dagger down and pulled me sharply against him, spinning me so my back pressed flush to his chest. His warmth bled through the thin layers of my dress.
Kaelith lifted his left wrist, the blood still dripping from the fresh cut. “Drink,” he said.
“No,” I whispered, panic rising. “No, I won’t?—”
Old whispers clawed at the back of my mind—fragments of stories, warnings scrawled in the margins of forgotten texts. Blood shared was power shared. Blood taken and returned was a chain, a bond no blade could sever.
“Aurelia,” Kaelith murmured, lowering his wrist to my lips, “drink.”
I tried to plead. I twisted my wrist to break his hold but he blurred; the air folding around him, the movement too fast to track. He was already where my arm would be, catching and turning me before the motion finished. It wasn’t that I’d missed—it was that no mortal could have hit him.
When I opened my mouth to protest, he shoved his bleeding wrist against my lips.
Heat filled every hollow, every ache. It claimed. And in the pit of my gut, shame bloomed hot, because Aeryn waited for me to save him, while here I was, swallowing someone else’s power.
I couldn't stop.
A moan tore from Kaelith’s throat—a low, guttural sound of triumph. “That's my good girl,” he breathed.
Flashes of memory not my own seared through me: