Chapter 98 — Feast of the Damned
Chapter 98 — Feast of the Damned
Amara
The sound of Killian’s voice booms through the fortress speakers, sharp and commanding. The words blur into static noise, but the tone—the tone slices through everything. Dawn bleeds through the curtains, brushing gold across the floorboards, the light fractured by iron bars. A cage trying to look holy.
The memory of last night floods back, hitting like cold water. My hand drifts to the curve just above my breast, to the raised, raw skin where the brand still burns. His initials. His mark. I used to only imagine what Phoebe must’ve felt when he branded her—now I knew. The same cruelty carved into me.
The smell of scorched flesh still clings to the air, mixed with whiskey and smoke. I sit up, body aching, stomach twisting. The ache beneath my skin isn’t pain—it’s hatred wearing a new face.
The clothes he picked for me hang neatly from a hook, black silk and soft lace—his idea of devotion. I rise and head for the bathroom, turning the shower handle until steam fills the glass. The water hisses over my shoulders, but it can’t wash him off. It never can. I scrub until the skin reddens anyway.
When the water runs clear, I press my forehead to the tile, whispering the promise that’s kept me alive: As soon as he’s dead, I’ll cut this mark out myself.
The thought turns my stomach violently. I barely make it to the trash can before the bile burns my throat. I stay there, breathing hard, until the wave passes. Then I stand again, steadying on the sink. My reflection looks back—hollow, patient, dangerous. The ghost is gone. What’s left is strategy.
I dry off and dress, pulling the mask over myself piece by piece—submissive, docile, silent. A lamb painted in wolf’s blood. I reach under the vanity, fingers finding the makeshift knife, and drag it across the back leg of the wood. The tally marks gouged there are uneven now—one for every day that’s passed, one for every breath I’ve survived. I add another.
The knife slides back into its hiding spot just as the door opens.
Killian enters without knocking.
I drop instantly to my knees, eyes lowered, palms open. The perfect little creation. His breath catches—he always loved this part, the performance he mistook for worship.
“Good morning, little one.”
His voice holds a strange edge today. Not softness. Anticipation.
“Morning, Master,” I answer, tone sweet, steady.
He tilts my chin upward, searching. His eyes dig into mine, looking for submission, for weakness. I think of Liam—the feel of his hands, the sound of his laugh—and let those memories paint warmth behind my eyes. Real emotion for a false god.
Killian’s gaze softens, satisfied. “Good,” he murmurs, like I’ve done something holy.
He gestures for me to follow. “It’s breakfast time.”
The balcony glows with early light. The table is obscene—fruit, pastries, steaming coffee, enough to feed an army. Always excess, always display. I move to the chair he pulls out, sit when he nods, every movement measured and delicate.
“Not much longer until you’re my wife,” he says, voice honeyed with possession. “Tell me, little one, are you looking forward to it as much as I am?”
The question opens the door I’ve been waiting for. I set my cup down and rise slowly. He doesn’t like disobedience, but hesitation would ruin the illusion. I cross to him, smooth, deliberate, and lower myself onto his lap.
His body goes still, then relaxes. His hands grip my hips with familiar greed.
“Of course, Master,” I whisper, brushing my lips near his ear. “I can’t wait for that day.”
He exhales—a shaky, hungry sound—and his mouth crashes into mine. His kiss is rough, claiming, a performance of victory. I return it carefully, guiding it just enough to convince him. His mouth tastes different now. It tastes like my freedom coming closer.
When he finally pulls back, his eyes gleam with pride. “Good girl. Looks like someone’s finally coming back to me.”
I smile softly, eyes lowered. “I’m sorry it took me so long to see. I was just… scared. I love you.”
The words taste like poison, but they do what they’re meant to. His heartbeat kicks against my chest, that twisted sense of control filling him again.
He kisses my forehead once more before standing. “Finish your coffee, little one. We have fittings to attend. You’ll make a beautiful bride.”
He leaves without looking back.
The moment the door closes, my hands tremble—not from fear, but from restraint. I walk to the balcony and stare out across the grounds. Below, workers move hurriedly in the courtyard, raising something tall and white. At first, it looks like scaffolding, but then I see the curve forming—an arch.
The wedding arch.
My breath catches, quiet but sharp. Sunlight hits the metal frame, gleaming like a blade. I press my fingers against the burn at my chest, feeling it pulse with every beat.
“Your altar will be your grave,” I whisper, a vow sealed in the still morning air.