The Darkest Edge of Dawn

He doubled over, grunting in pain and releasing me as I slugged with a hard uppercut to the jaw, not holding anything back. I never did. Hank and I sparred all the time. I never took it easy on him. He was an off- worlder. He’d heal. A punch, a cut—hell, even a bullet to the belly—would heal within a day.

I swung again. He deflected, trying to grab hold of my arms and finally getting me into a bear hug amid a slew of angry Elysian curses. I raised back to head butt him.

“Don’t … you … dare,” he ground out slowly.

I hit him hard, bracing for the impact, but he turned his head and my forehead slammed against his cheekbone. He fell back, taking me to the floor. I tried to roll, but he was quicker, using our momentum to pin me to the ground. I didn’t give him time to settle, bucking and twisting beneath him, rolling into the Throne Tree and knocking it over on top of us.

We became a flailing mass of arms and legs, curses and grunts. The Throne Tree scratched my skin. Bits of soil got into my eyes and mouth as we both scrambled to get out from under the tree while remaining the one in control.

I found myself flipped onto my belly, nearly breathless, as I tried to crawl out from under Hank. He snagged my ankle and pulled me back beneath him, his weight keeping me flat against the hardwood floor. Shit. I struggled but couldn’t move.

He snapped a branch of the tree, and I threw a glance over my shoulder. “Stop!”

A dark blond brow lifted, and I knew what he was thinking. I hadn’t listened to him with the head butt, so now it was payback time. Indigo liquid dripped from the jagged broken edge of the corkscrew branch.

“What the hell are you doing?!” I shouted at him, struggling. He jerked my black T off my shoulder. “I swear to God, Hank, if you cut me with that, I will kill you!”

“You wouldn’t kill your lover, Charlie.”

“You are not my lover!”

He froze. “Admit it and I’ll release you.”

“Fuck you.”

“Right back at ya, babe.” He jerked my shirt harder, leaving a good expanse of my shoulder exposed.

“You can’t mark me unless I agree to it, you big idiot!”

“You know the Throne Tree is sacred to the nobles,” Hank said. “The Charbydon thrones are made with its branches. Its liquid can link two people forever.”

“Trust me, Hank, you’d regret that link for the rest of your days.”

“I’m sure I would,” he said flatly. “But other symbols … Ah. Actually, I like that idea.” He pressed the tip of the Throne Tree branch against my skin, intending to give me a goddamn ceremonial mark.

I struggled with everything I had, so angry that I fell back on all my human responses, completely abandoning the power humming inside. My chest and lungs constricted as I fought for freedom. Anger had its hold on both of us, and neither one of us cared. Neither one of us was going to lose this battle of wills. I screamed as he stabbed the sharp edge of the branch into my skin, tracing the curved half-arrow-shaped symbol with two slashes and a dot into my flesh as he muttered a few Charbydon words to match.

“Goddamn you!”

The symbol tingled and burned.

Finished, he sat back on my ass. “There. Now try denying what you feel.”

The veins throbbed along my temple. My face flamed in fury, and every inch of my skin shook with rage. I could think of nothing but retaliation. And the fact that he thought he had won—sadly fucking mistaken.

His decision to sit up was his biggest error. I flipped under him, snatched the branch out of his hand, sat up, and shoved it into his chest.

16

A bloom of dark red spread across Hank’s white shirt.

He stilled completely, his face turning pale as his anger bled away. “Don’t push, Charlie,” he said in a ragged tone.

My fingers flexed on the branch, my heart pounding like a million drums through my ears. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t.”

“Because if that ink reaches my heart, it will kill me in less than ten seconds. No cure. No healing. Just … dead.”

My mind foundered. I blinked. We sparred all the time. He always healed. Stabbing him with a twig should’ve caused him an hour or less of discomfort as he healed. Right? For a long moment, I didn’t move as the blood continued to spread across his crisp white shirt. Slowly, my anger gave way to the reality of his words. I swear, I hadn’t known the ink would kill. “Snap another branch.”

“What?”

“You’re getting a mark, too. Or I’m pushing.” Which was a lie, and he knew it. All he had to do was call my bluff. I’d let go, and he’d come out of this fight without a mark. But I knew he wouldn’t challenge. No. He’d crossed the line by marking me. He knew it, and he wasn’t the type of guy to shirk away now.

His jaw tightened and his stony gaze met mine for a long moment. Carefully he reached over, wincing, and snapped a small twig from the fallen Throne Tree. “Here.”

The liquid pooled at the end. “Unbutton your shirt.”

He reached under my hand and began unbuttoning, his face refusing to show the pain I knew the movement caused him. Our collective anger had gotten us into this mess, and we might as well see it through to the very bloody end.

I didn’t have to tell him to pull the right side of his shirt off his shoulder. He did it with a glare, offering his skin for my mark.

I placed the dripping edge of the branch against a spot above his right nipple and met his gaze. A moment passed. And then I pressed until the skin broke. I cut the same shape into his flesh and muttered the same words he had, but used my name where he had used his. His dark, thunderous expression never changed; his eyes never looked away from me.

Once I was done, I dropped the branch. I had no idea what kind of mark I’d just given him. My attention returned to the stick embedded in his chest.

He gave me a sharp nod.

I drew in a deep breath, feeling the stark twinges of guilt and remorse for what had transpired. Hindsight was a bitch, and I was pretty certain Hank was thinking the same thing. My hand tightened around the stick.

One. Two. Three!

I jerked hard.

It came out with a slight sucking sound, releasing a fresh blossom of blood. Hank flinched and then lifted himself off my pelvis to sit on the floor beside me. Sweat beaded on his brow. He swiped it off with his forearm before placing his hands flat on the floor, hanging his head low and breathing in deeply.

The mark on my shoulder blade burned, the inky poison sealing the symbol. His was doing the same—but even worse for him, the ink was running through his wound, seeping into his bloodstream with a larger dose than that of a simple mark.

As the last bit of anger retreated, the cold crept in, leaving me trembling and realizing the enormity of our situation. I leaned over on my knees and touched Hank’s hand. The skin was hot. Sweat dripped from the tip of his nose and his chin. His head remained bowed. “Tell me what to do, Hank.” He didn’t answer. “Hank!”

“Cold,” he forced out. “Need to … cool … down.”

I scrambled to my feet and hooked my arm under his, pulling until he made it to his feet. By the time he had, I was sweating, too. I led him into his bedroom and the master bath, the only place I knew to get him cold.

The extravagant bathroom had a shower big enough for a party of five and an assortment of showerheads. It took me several seconds to figure out the nozzle/shower combination. I set it to rain cool water down from the