Page 105 of The Fallen Fae King

My shackles weren’t removed.

Then I was forced into a gladiatorial uniform like I was no more than property: a fitted black leather breastplate with the Golden Dragon emblem emblazoned on the front as a mark of ownership, and strips of worn, golden leather that hung from my waist.

My feet were left bare.

Now in the dark, I only see the light when Wraith and the Head of the Guild, Taran, who the Scarlet Temple would be proud of for his sadism, drag me out to play their games of pleasure and pain.

Bile rushes up my throat.

Shadow Devils, help me forget. Hide those thoughts in the Void.

It helped me during my time in the punishment pits. I would force all memories of…what happened…out of my mind. I would only experience the suffering as it happened, while in the long stretches in between, I would drop them into the abyss that I created in my mind.

Sometimes, forgetting is the only way to survive.

I latch onto my wrist, over the Ankh mark. I bite without breaking the skin.

Because sometimes, remembering is the only way to survive.

“Dearhearts,” I whisper.

My mind is foggy. I am feral.

I am glad that my Omega is not here to see me like this.

I lick and bite over the bond mark as I have every time that I am alone in the cell, until the skin is red and raw, obsessively searching for Freya’s emotions.

She is anxious. Frightened. But not hurting.

It is a revelation that someone else’s safety can matter more than anything else in the realms to me.

Suddenly, I feel her kiss over the bond mark. Then there is a sensation of feathers — Daire’s wing.

My eyelashes flutter.

I kiss the bond mark back, desperately.

They are together.

No vampire should be separated from their Omega after they are bonded.

No vampire can survive being separated the night after a bonding.

I whine, slamming my fist into the wall. The masonry crumbles on me like snow.

I must keep living. I must last this month.

But how can I without feeding? How can I without my bonded Omega? Without scenting her pheromones?

I am dying.

My lips curl back over my aching fangs, which are twin points of agony. I can’t shift, and it’s like someone has amputated part of me.

I reach deep inside of myself, and what remains of my magic swirls around me. My shadows rise up. I concentrate and search with the Power to sense the creatures in the dungeons.

The Power is weakened by the shackles. The loss, after the persecution I have faced for my ability, is more painful than any torture this Guild has put me through.

I almost sob with relief, when I can still sense the rats, beetles, and flies living around the dank dungeon, which are excitedly answering my call.