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)
He chuckles under his breath and pulls my jacket sleeve down.
I swing my legs where I sit on the table, heel knocking lightly against the metal frame. Silver’s quiet. Too quiet. When I glance up, a small frown creases the skin between his brows.
“What?”
He doesn’t answer. He lifts his hand over my arm, a soft glow blooming beneath his palm, and a shiver runs over my skin as his magic pets me. The dried blood melts away in a ripple of magic, sliding off my skin like ink pulled into water.
And left behind is…nothing.
Just smooth flesh, faint sheen of newness where there should be carnage.
Silver’s eyes flick up to mine, and there’s something new there—interest, uncertainty, calculation.
Behind him, London steps closer, her voice low. “Not even a scar…”
Silver glances her way, jaw tight.
“There were multiple,” she murmurs, staring at my arm. “And bone-deep. I wouldn’t have bothered to bring her here for anything less.”
“Huh,” I say, staring at the smooth skin where carnage should be. “Looks like I do the whole self-cauterizing thing now. That’s fucking cool.”
I expect some form of response. A joke. Or an eye roll. But all she does is stare at my arm like it’s a ticking time bomb. Something unreadable flickers across her features.
I shrug, pulling my jacket back on and tapping my nails on my codex. “Maybe Creed was right and I have some power in me after all.”
I hop off the table and start toward the door, only to realize London isn’t next to me.
She’s still by Silver, the two staring at each other with conflicting expressions.
“Well,” I call and she snaps her head toward me like she forgot I existed. I gesture down the hall. “Feed me.”
With one last look at Silver, London leads me out of Silver’s sanctuary. We walk through the middle of the school, and it’s kind of hilarious how everyone dips their heads when she walks by.
The girl’s got mad aura, and I don’t think it’s only because she’s currently the only queen they’ve got.
Maybe it’s the freaky white hair and the way her eyes flash black when the demon that is literally inside her gets triggered.
I wonder how that works?
Like, does it talk? Is it like a Lycan’s beast—a second being inside them who has a mind of its own? Or is it simply an extension of London herself?
She wasn’t born with it. According to all the shit I’ve been reading in my codex from Professor Astra, it’s a result of being fated to a Royal. A gift from the gods.
Wait…if it’s “fate,” then maybe she was born with it?
A huff leaves me, and I feel her look at me from the corner of her eye.
I need to have a little chat with that professor. Probably need to bring my knives ’cause every time someone asks about royal bonds, she shuts the conversation down like it’s some coveted shit no one else should know about. Lame. And apparently everyone is waiting and hoping to be matched with one of the Deveraux brothers around here, so this shit is like a daily topic at this point.
Not that I think I’m mated to Legend or anything…
Yeah. Okay, Haide.
Fuck.
London leads us to a place called The Cauldron House. It’s a creepy, cool place that sits high in the hills behind Rathe U, tucked so deep into the stone and steam that most students don’t bother climbing this far unless they’re starving or hiding.
Blackwood trees crowd the edges, their branches twisted like they’re reaching for the heat that rolls out of the open-air kitchen. The whole place smells like charred herbs and roasted meat and magic—old magic, the kind grown from bone broth and cauldrons that have boiled for decades. Probably gifted bones.
London keeps glancing back at me like she thinks I’m going to cut into the trees and run. It annoys me enough that I dig my boots harder into the incline just so I can pass her at the last second and claim the shadowy table tucked beneath an overhang.
The moment we sit, someone drops a plate piled with meat in front of me. Perfect. I tear into it with my hands because utensils are slow and unnecessary—and because London looks faintly horrified when I do it. Always a plus.
For a while we eat in silence, just the low hum of the cauldron bubbling behind us and the soft scrape of London’s fork against her plate. It’s almost peaceful.
Then London ruins it.
“So,” she says casually, like she’s commenting on the weather and not about to stab me sideways. “You’re Legend’s mate, hm?”
I freeze mid-bite, hand still suspended in the air, grease slicking my fingers. It takes a moment to recover from the sudden question, and I search her face—trying to decide if she’s joking, prying, or trying to start a fight. I’ll lose if she uses her magic on me, literal demon inside her and all.