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He found the intended’s. Had to be hers, because it was the only one in the whole place that was spelling out pure terror—

“Stop the ceremony,” V said in a hard voice.

The Scribe Virgin’s head twisted over to him. “They shall finish it.”

“The hell they will.” The brother got up out of his throne and marched onto the stage, having obviously caught the scent as well. As he came forward, the Chosen let out squeaks of alarm and broke ranks. While the females scattered and their white robes whipped around, Phury thought of a stack of paper napkins at a picnic, blowing away all willy-nilly, skipping along the grass.

Except this was no Sunday in the park.

Vishous yanked the intended’s jeweled robing back together, then tore free the binds. As she sagged, he caught her by the arm and held her up. “Phury, I’ll meet you back home.”

Wind began to rip around, emanating from the Scribe Virgin, but V held his own, facing off with his…well, his mother, apparently.

Mother. Christ, never saw that one coming.

V had a death grip on the poor female and a face full of hatred as he stared at the Scribe Virgin. “Phury, get the fuck out of here.”

Even though Phury was a peacekeeper at heart, he knew better than to intercede in this kind of family squabble. The best he could to was pray his brother didn’t come back in an urn.

Before he took off, he had one last look at the female’s hooded form. V was now holding her with both hands, as she appeared to have passed out. Jesus Christ… What a mess.

Phury turned and beat feet back down the white silk runner toward the Scribe Virgin’s Courtyard. First stop? Wrath’s study. The king was going to have to know what went down. Even though clearly the biggest part of the story had yet to play out.

Chapter Thirty-five

When Cormia came to, she was stretched out flat on her back, the robing still on, the hood in place. She didn’t think she was on that board she’d been strapped to, however. No…she wasn’t on—

It all came back to her: The Primale stopping the ceremony and freeing her. A vast wind blowing through the amphitheater. The Brother and the Scribe Virgin starting to argue.

Cormia had passed out at that point, missing what ensued. What had happened to the Primale? Surely he had not survived, as no one defied the Scribe Virgin.

“You want any of that off?” a hard male voice said.

Fear shot up her spine. Merciful Virgin, he remained herein.

Instinctively she curled into a ball to protect herself.

“Relax. I’m not going to do anything to you.”

Going by his harsh tone of voice, she could not trust the words: Anger marked the syllables he spoke, turning them into verbal blades, and though she could not see his form, she could sense the awesome power in him. He was indeed the warrior son of the Bloodletter.

“Look, I’m going to take the hood off so you can breathe, okay?”

She tried to get away from him, tried to crawl from wherever she lay, but the robing tangled and trapped her.

“Hold up, female. I’m just trying to give you a break here.”

She went dead still as his hands fell upon her, sure she would be beaten. Instead he merely loosened the top two fastenings and lifted the hood.

Sweet, clean air swept onto her face through the thin veil, a luxury like food to the hungry, but she couldn’t draw much in. She was tight all over, her eyes squeezed shut, her mouth drawn in a grimace as she braced herself for only the Virgin knew what.

Except nothing happened. He was with her still…she could catch his fearsome scent…and yet he touched her not, spoke no other words.

She heard a rasping sound and an inhale. Then she smelled something tangy and smoky. Like incense.

“Open your eyes.” His voice was all command as it came from behind her.

She lifted her lids and blinked a number of times. She was on the stage at the amphitheater, facing outward toward an empty golden throne and a white silk runner that led up the hilly rise.

Heavy footsteps came around.

And there he was. Towering over her, bigger than anything she’d seen that breathed, his pale eyes and hard face so cold she recoiled.