Wrath of One: A Reverse Harem Series (The Origins of the Six Book 4)

by A. K. Koonce

  I feel my heart shatter in my chest.

  “Don’t walk away from me!” My wings flare angrily, and I reach forward to grip him by the forearm. He whirls around, his upper lip pulling back in a snarl that reveals growing canines.

  “Let go of me, corazón,” he pleads in a painful, broken voice. “I cannot stand by and watch you commit the biggest mistake of your life. I cannot watch you destroy yourself like this.”

  “Don’t abandon me.” It’s a command and a plea rolled into one. I am all powerful now. I should have enough power to make him stay. I should, but I know, by the look on his face, that I don’t.

  “Let go, Izara.”

  I know, deep down I know, he’s drifting away from me. Prepared to leave and never look back. It hurts; the pain rises in burning desperation, and all I can think is that I have to make him stay. Somehow, I have to make him stay and love me again.

  So I press closer, and he doesn’t fight me. Maybe it’s the tears warm in my eyes. I want to cry, but I refuse. I can’t help the crash of emotions inside me. Not when he’s so close and so far away, and this is the only thing I can think of to keep him close to me.

  I frame his face between my hands and lean forward. “It’s the only way,” I whisper. “And you can’t leave me. Please. Please don’t leave me.”

  He sighs, and I know his answer before he says it.

  “I can’t stay.”

  It breaks me entirely. I steel myself against the raging emotions inside and grip him tighter. “Malek.”

  His eyes close as I say his name, and I know he’s not as invulnerable as he’s pretending to be. He is, after all, still a beast, ruled by primitive instincts, and I’m his mate.

  He can’t walk away from me.

  I won’t let him.

  I lean toward him and press my lips against his, softly, gently. “Please. Say you love me,” I whisper with a tremble in my tone.

  I hear his heartbeat speed up. “I do.” His hands reach up to grasp my wrists. “Which makes leaving you so much fucking harder.”

  It’s a push and pull between us. I feel him cling to me just as much as I’m clinging to him.

  I press another kiss to his mouth. As if this is enough to make him stay. It has to be. “Don’t leave.” I kiss him, and he groans, leaning toward me. He’s hanging on by a mere thread, I know he is. “I love you.”

  It’s those three words that break him.

  His fingers tangle into my hair, knocking the crown from my head. It rolls to the dead earth, but I don’t pay attention to it. I can’t when Malek’s fingers are digging into my hair, clutching at my waist, and he’s suddenly moving, pushing me backwards until my back meets a tree.

  This is something we can both understand. This mating bond between us exists, and it’s heady and strong. He can stand there and tell me he’s leaving, but his body and heart will always want me. Just like I will always want him.

  My back digs into the bark uncomfortably, but I don’t care. Not when Malek slides his hand over my body. His every movement is wild, primal, as desperate as my own. My fingers tangle into his hair, and our mouths meet for a crushing kiss. Tongues tangle together, and it’s vicious in all its savagery. It’s everything I need.

  As if this violent clash of bodies is what we need to tether ourselves to one another.

  Maybe we can.

  Maybe we can take the fragile, broken pieces of trust between us and mend it with this. With his hands sliding up the front of my thighs without preamble, pulling up the long, smoking dress as he goes.

  My fingers fumble with the button and zipper of his jeans, and with a groan he pulls back from me. His gaze shifts slowly across my face as our breaths collide between us.

  I pull him closer, as if we aren’t already close enough.

  Stay.

  I never say the word, but he shakes his head slowly at me.

  I already know he won’t stay here, but I can trick myself into believing that he just might.

  The faint brush of his lips against mine pulls more and more emotion from the pressing tension paining my chest.

  It hurts to finally have him here when it’s all I wanted from the start.

  I see the tenseness of his shoulders and smell the regret and heartbreak between us. A lump rises in my throat, but I choke back all the words and secrets I want to say, knowing that I can’t bring them to my lips. He can’t know, wouldn’t understand…

  So I keep silent and watch him smooth out his shirt, and I wonder if it’s his way of ridding it of the scent of me. When he finally turns back to me, I’m fighting to keep the tears at bay. I brought this on myself; I know. I betrayed their trust, lied, pushed them away.

  To protect them, to control myself.

  I watched them die over and over and over again. And it would have truly happened if I hadn’t accepted my Prod in every way.

  It was all for a reason.

  “The academy is falling,” Malek says. He half turns away. “We are fighting to protect it, so this chaos doesn’t get unleashed outside of these walls. We aren’t sure how long we have or if we can fix this mess.”

  This mess you started. Those words go left unsaid between us, but I feel them deeply.

  He turns then, and those golden eyes of his are piercing, demanding. “What side of the line do you fall on, Izara? When things get tough, who will you fight for?”

  I take a step forward. My knees are still weak, and my thighs are still trembling, but determination lines my every feature. “I fight for you, Malek. For you, Saint, Syko, and Phoenix. I always have, and I always will.”

  “Then come back to us. Help us get rid of Lucian Morningstar.” He holds his hand out and waits for me to take it.

  I look from it to his eyes, the expectancy, the pleading. Yet what he wants is something I cannot give.

  “You want me to destroy my father.” His hand wavers as I take a step back and shake my head back and forth. “I’m sorry, Malek. I can’t.”

  I barely catch the sight of his broken expression before trees snap and crumble like twigs, parting down the middle as a figure steps through. His gargantuan body takes up so much space, he looks like a living, breathing statue with cracked gray skin and rocky wings.

  His cruel laughter shakes around us like a rockslide, like marbles rubbing together, or rock crumbling beneath a fist. The Messenger of Chaos pulls his lip back in a sneer as he takes Malek in.

  I know he heard every word.

  He strides up behind me and looms there, framing my small figure. I know he’s staring at Malek like he’s prey, but I force myself to stay exactly where I am, even while my eyes are telling Malek to leave.

  He, of course, doesn’t listen.

  It’s the wolf in him. He feels the need to assert his dominance, to protect his mate, and I love him dearly for it. Even when I want to yank on his ear and call him out on that alpha male bullshit that has the worst timing possible.

  A big hand clamps down on my shoulder, and I try not to wince at the contact.

  “Well done, little sister,” the Messenger says in his grating voice. He’s speaking Ifrit, and my fully accepted Prod has no trouble understanding the words now.

  Fucking traitor.

  “Go away,” I reply in my own language. My whole body has tensed at his presence.

  “Why would I do that when I found a delicious-looking traitor for our father?” He starts to sidestep me, and my wings flash out, blocking his way. I don’t have to turn and face him to exude command.

  “You will not touch him. My men are off limits. Father has decreed it.”

  Malek looks like he’s ready to burst with violence and rage. I can see welts rising over his skin and the sharpness of canines pressing against his lips. His whole body trembles and threatens to change, and I know just how dangerous this whole situation is.

  A wolf shouldn’t change on any day besides the full moon. To force your body to change at will merges the two entities together, beast and man, and ca
uses the more dominant one to take over. It’s what makes all the shifter Prods so violent and uncontrollable.

  The change is upon him. Coarse hair sprouts against his arms, and his skin bubbles like something is pushing its way past his body.

  “He will make an exception for this mutt. He is plotting father’s demise.” He shoves my wings unkindly aside. I think of all the demons here, he is the one who respects me the least, and I wonder if it’s simply because we share the same father and he feels older, superior.

  I don’t give a fuck what it is.

  I’m not letting him hurt Malek.

  A snarl rips from Malek’s throat when he sees my half-brother shove my wings aside. He drops to all fours and arches his back just as the change rips through him. Skin and blood explode around him, and the sight is nauseating to witness. I’ve never seen something so primitive before. All the bones in his body seem to break and reform until he’s a massive brown wolf, baring his teeth at his enemy.

  The Messenger chuckles at this and steps up beside me. “You think you alone can take me?”

  Malek snarls in response.

  I want to beg him to leave.

  No words have a chance to come out of my mouth before I hear the unmistakable sound of wingbeats against air. Branches crack and cascade around us just as a figure falls from the sky and lands in front of us.

  Fucking superhero landing style.

  I can’t avoid the thrill that tingles between my legs.

  Syko stands beside Malek’s snarling form, a cocky, tight smirk splayed on his mouth. “He’s not alone.” Those heavenly wings spread wide at his back, glowing in the darkness of the forest. They cast his whole body in an ephemeral halo of light.

  He’s an avenging angel in all his glory, and I am reminded of those images depicted in churches. Of angels flying down from the parting skies of the heavens, sword in hand, to vanquish demons from earth.

  Is it silly that my fingers itch to paint this moment?

  Black eyes flick over to me, dismissing the Messenger like he’s completely beneath this heaven-sent angel. “Izzy.” The greeting is warm and sad. “I’ve missed you.” There’s so much implication in those three words that I know there’s more to it than that. He misses who I was before this.

  The Messenger emits an annoyed noise and stomps forward a step. “Nephilim. I will break your bones and shred your bloody corpse.”

  Syko squints at him. “I’m sorry, what was that? I don’t speak rockslide.”

  It’s such a fucking Saint-like thing to say that I want to laugh.

  Who would have imagined the vampire and the nephilim would ever be friends?

  “You test my patience.” And before I can blink, the Messenger lunges without warning, without crying out, and I’m left to watch as he hurtles toward Syko. But Syko sees the assault coming and shoots backwards with a powerful flap of his wings just before both of them take to the skies.

  I blink up. They’re specks in the sky, soaring and clashing against one another, and even from here, I feel the power of their battle raging.

  My wings spread out. I know just how powerful the Messenger is and how little chance Syko has against him. His cries piercing the hellish sky push me into action. I glance at Malek, who paces impatiently back and forth.

  “I’m sorry,” I apologize quickly just before I shoot into the skies after them.

  The force of my rage claws its way out of me with one vicious sweep.

  My father and I had an agreement. No one would touch what belongs to me, and already the Messenger is challenging me, and my father’s decree. He revels in the chaos and so he seeks to create it.

  But he fucked with the wrong Prod.

  And I aim to make him pay.

  The higher I fly, the more fog surrounds me. It’s almost choking in its intensity, and up here, I see the demons of hell circling the battle, waiting to see who will come out the victor. So that they may rejoice and feast.

  Syko dodges the Messenger, but he’s not fast enough.

  I’m not fast enough to reach them before the Messenger uses his magic to catch Syko in his unrelenting grip. My mouth opens to shout a warning, but it’s too late.

  My half-brother reaches for my best friend…

  …and he rips his wings in half.

  Five

  Phoenix

  I never realized just how many emotions are alive and well within me. Too many. There are too many feelings slamming through my chest, and I want to fall to my knees and vomit it all out just to catch my breath again.

  But I can’t. I have to keep moving. I hesitated too long watching the damn nephilim fly off. I can’t pause to dwell on Syko’s lingering screams. Or the memory of Izara rushing to avenge whatever had happened to him.

  Something did happen though. Something fucking bad. It was a haunting sound of agony that keeps ringing in my head.

  She’ll take care of him. Saint will take care of him. He’ll be okay.

  I hope.

  Fuck!

  Syko had to go and play hero. Maybe he thought his presence would bring Izara back from whatever fucked-up black hole her mind was swallowed into. I crave her too; my body and heart fucking ache to be near her. I would have let this whole fucking place burn to the ground once upon a time.

  Emotions are fucked-up things. They make me want things I wouldn’t otherwise care about.

  I swallow it all down and keep running after the swift movements of the professor up ahead. I almost lost him during the chaos and the night. The fae, they move like shadows, like the wind; if you aren’t paying attention you miss them. And here I am, stomping after him, jarring into demons here and there and slamming my fist into anyone who tries to slow me down.

  At the entrance of the academy, where the brick sidewalk circles to make room for an angelic statue, the professor stops dead in his tracks. Fire and screams surround him, a blur of aggression and destruction slashing back and forth behind him. And yet, no one notices when the fae lifts his long fingers and blows a sweet, careful breath against the stone statue in front of him.

  My steps slow, and I wait as he whispers words like a desperate prayer. The carved lines of the headmistress’s skirts sway like a breeze has caught the stone she’s built of. My gaze narrows as the skirts part down the middle. It opens.

  Professor Thorne rushes forward at once, darting right into the entryway. And I’m right behind him, not hesitating to consider how completely bizarre it is to hide an opening beneath an honorable woman’s dress.

  The entrance slides shut before I’m fully through, and I have to lunge into the darkness of the hidden passage. No light hints at the surrounding area. Dense shadows conceal me, and when I reach out on either side, the walls are close, barely leaving enough room for a single person to stand here. Dampness clings to the air, and I pause for a moment to try to hear the gentle steps of the fae somewhere up ahead.

  Nothing. I hear absolutely nothing.

  “Fucking fae and their fucking delicateness,” I hiss to no one.

  I barrel down the unknown hall without caution, arms outstretched, my palms slamming into unseen walls again, and again, and again. I’m turning left, then right and the narrow walls start to feel like they’re pressing in. It feels like a cruel game meant to torture any intruder who might not belong in the channels of the Academy of Six.

  Maybe it is. Or maybe it’s because of my demon blood.

  I keep going.

  My rapid steps stumble over the stone flooring, and my skull pounds right into hard concrete before my hands ever have time to come up for protection.

  “Fuck!” I curse the darkness. I curse this fucking school and the fucking founders who built these twisting, winding tunnels beneath it.

  My eyes shut, and I lean into the wall. The weight on my shoulders sags, and I settle there for a bit with my head against the cool rock, my frustrated breaths the only sound whispering to me in the silence.

  Sparking light flickers over the jagged
rock beneath my hands. The bright colors dance across the shadows, and it takes me a second to lift my head to the source of the flame. A bend blocks my view, but with just a few steps, I see him.

  Professor Thorne stands in a circular room that’s carved right from the earth itself. Five tall, godly statues surround him. I watch as his forest green eyes shift from one monument to the next. A man in a long cloak is carved with a regal and proud posture. A woman with accentuated curves and bared fangs gives a piercing look to anyone who might admire her. Next to her, a beast on four legs with slashing talons bares its teeth as if he’s mid-roar. A figure with wide shoulders and an even wider wingspan takes up several feet of space.

  And then, a slender figure identical to the professor stands quietly among them all.

  The warlock, the vampire, the shifter, the nephilim, and the fae.

  “They’re all dead,” Thorne whispers, his shining eyes still searching every detail of the statues before him. “Even Etheria. She was our leader, and even she’s gone now.” His tone is a wavering thing, and I exhale a heavy breath.

  I am not equipped to handle this. Syko would be able to comfort this man. Meanwhile, I just want to ask him how protected the entrance up above us is. If the statue of the headmistress is broken, all of these pieces will be destroyed and the barrier around the academy will fall with them.

  Grime shifts beneath my boots, and I hate that we’re just fucking standing here while a war is booming over our heads.

  “Listen, I’m going to get Malek.” I start plotting it all out, thinking through everything that needs to be done. “We can all take shifts guarding the six. We just have to keep them safe until Shade is taken down. If we can keep this shit safe and kill Shade, all of this will be over. We can do it. We can do this.” My wide eyes finally lift to see if Professor Thorne has any input on my rambling plans.

  To my surprise, he isn’t paying attention to me at all. He didn’t hear a word I’d just said, I’m sure of it. Instead, he’s staring down at a glinting piece of metal in his pale palm. Tendrils of smoke waft up from around it, accompanied by the distinct sound of sizzling skin. Because the metal is burning rapidly through his flesh. The capsule of iron is lying in the bloody palm of his hand, resting on white bone, but he doesn’t let it go. His gaze is lost. Far off. Thinking of another time entirely.