94

ISLA

People in love are stupid.

Not just rom-com stupid. Not just "hold-my-hand-and-jump-off-a-cliff" stupid. I mean the kind of stupid that rewrites logic, drowns reason, and paints tragedy in pastel pink.

And before someone rolls their human eyes and mutters jealous much, let’s get one thing straight.

I didn’t want Ezra because of some burning, poetic connection or whatever drivel mortals write in their diaries.

I wanted him because he was mine. Because he was powerful. Beautiful. Cold-blooded perfection carved in ruin. A prince. A weapon. A kingdom. A crown.

Love had nothing to do with it.

It never does.

So when she came to me—Thea Carlisle, Ezra’s precious little chaos storm in heels—I almost laughed. Even thought it was a prank, a desperate last gasp from a grieving human too dumb to realize the door had already closed.

But no.

She stood there. Trembling in that annoyingly resilient way of hers.

Begging.

And bargaining.

And honestly?

I respect the gall.

She doesn’t flinch when I bare my fangs mid-sentence when we are in the car together. Doesn’t recoil when I let my voice drop low enough to make most mortals piss themselves.

She should. Really. For her own good.

I’ve sucked prettier things dry for less.

But she didn’t come here to be smart. She came to be in love.

How poetic.

How exhausting.

Now, we’re stepping through the obsidian archway that leads into the amphitheatre, and I can practically feel the Underworld biting at her skin. The air down here is thick, ancient, laced with too many oaths and too much old magic. No human is built to endure it. Not for long.

And yet—

She walks.

Barely, but still.

Her shivering has become constant, like her body’s trying to shake the place off of her. She’s paler than usual. Clammy. Her jaw clenched so tight I wonder if it’ll snap.

Still holding on.

Still not fainting.

Impressive for a pest.

I click my tongue and glance at her as we slow before the final entrance.

“This is where you shut up, breathe shallow, and don’t look directly at anything that hisses at you,” I say airily. “If you see something with too many eyes, don’t wave. Don’t answer questions. Don’t speak unless I tell you to. And if you hear your name whispered three times—run. Or pray. Whichever suits you.”

She says nothing.

I stop walking.

She doesn’t.

Of course she doesn’t.

The little cockroach just keeps going. Walking straight toward the entrance like it’s a therapy session and not, you know, a blood court designed to destroy.

I blink once, slowly.

“Okay,” I mutter to myself. “So she is courting death.”

I follow after her until I'm matching her pace, heels clicking against the polished bone floor.

As annoying as she is, I don’t actually want her dead.

Rival or not, I don’t make a habit of killing women. Especially not single mothers with enough bite in their spine to bargain with vampires.

Especially not ones willing to give up everything for a man.

That sort of desperation deserves punishment, sure.

But not death.

I have… other plans.

Better ones.

If Ezra survives this, and if he wakes up to find her still standing? Well.

Let’s just say I wouldn’t mind watching what kind of wreckage they leave behind.

After all, I’ve lived for centuries.

And I’m always in the mood for a good show.

But still, I'll always have the last laugh. Because obviously, he's mine. I was groomed for him. That fact is never changing.

The doors groan open.

And we step into the pit.

It’s been years since I last stood here—decades, maybe. The last time was during the Blood Festival. I wore silver that night, drank from three chief heirs, and danced over a bed of rose petals and bone dust.

Glorious times.

This?

This is different.

The air doesn’t sing, it scratches. The amphitheatre feels colder, harsher, and hungrier.

And on the podium—at the very center of the world’s gaze—he stands.

Ezra.

My betrothed.

My weapon.

My everything.

And gods, even now, ruined, he’s beautiful. Not in the soft way mortals crave, but in the way predators are. Unapologetic. Sharp. Starved.

Blood pools at his feet, the glimmer of crimson catching against the light of the hearing stones. His wings hang low, dripping into it. Black veins claw across his skin like rot, and yet—

Still.

Handsome.

The murmuring that’s been buzzing dies off the moment we step in.

And for a foolish second, I almost believe it’s because of me. Because I, Isla De Vries Montgomery, have entered the court.

Then I glance sideways.

And the human is gone, she’s already walking to the damn podium.

Like an offering.

Like a stupid, fragile offering served up on a silver platter to a man who looks one second away from ripping his own skin off.

“Oh, brilliant,” I mutter, folding my arms.

She walks straight into their line of vision—into his line of vision—and I don’t even need to look around to feel it.

The crowd reacts.

Gasps. Growls. Murmurs rise like heatwaves.

Foolish little pest.

She has no idea what kind of hunger lies beneath that man’s ribs. He hasn’t fed. Hasn’t healed. Virius flows in his vein.He looks at her like a dream, but I know that look. I’ve worn it. I’ve fed it. It ends in carnage.

And I?

Well.

I did bring the blood bag to him.

“You’ve lost your mind,” my father’s voice hisses in my head. Even after centuries of ignoring him, I can still hear that infernal growl echoing behind my ears. “What the hell are you doing?!”

“Shut up,” I mutter under my breath, earning a curious glance from a nearby elder.

Then, I glanced away just to see the First Elder step forward, his presence slicing through the noise like a guillotine.

He’s ancient in the way the moon is. Cold. Watching. Endlessly unimpressed.

He stalks toward me like judgment itself.

So I bow.

Gracefully and deeply.

Because I know how to play the game.

His voice is razor sharp. “How dare you bring a mortal here?”

I bow again.

“My lord Naskai,” I say smoothly, “I come with a trade.”