
The Monsters We Are
- eBook
- Book info
- Sample
- Media
- Author updates
- Lists
Synopsis
A brand new trilogy from worldwide bestselling author Suzanne Wright, author of The Dark in You, continues. A seriously spicy fantasy romance perfect for fans of Sarah J Mass, Raven Kennedy and Scarlett Sinclair. Meet Wynter and Cain . . .
'This wonderfully wicked lady never fails to deliver the absolute best always . . . I'm equal parts envious and in awe of her mind' Netgalley review
'Please Suzanne don't ever stop writing' Netgalley review
---
What readers are saying about Suzanne Wright:
'The chemistry sizzles off the page' Netgalley review
'Hot as hell . . . explosive' Netgalley review
'It's been two minutes since my last fix and I need Suzanne Wright to give me more' Edgy Reviews
'No words to describe how much I ADORE this extraordinary and magical read!!!' Gi's Spot Reviews on Burn
'Sarcastic banter, a sexy alpha demon and his smart-mouthed heroine, an intense, highly passionate romance . . . I devoured this book from start to finish!' The Escapist Book Blog on Burn
'Unique, original and very entertaining' Ramblings from this Chick
Release date: January 16, 2025
Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group
Print pages: 100
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
Reader buzz

Author updates
The Monsters We Are
Suzanne Wright
“Why did you choose to have your face painted in that stereotypical green witch style anyway?” Wynter Dellavale asked, eyeing her coven member curiously.
“Well, this is an ‘It’s almost Halloween’ party.”
“And you’re dressed in a blood-stained cheerleader’s outfit. The face paint doesn’t go with the look.”
“Yes, but everyone will now assume that the boils and hairy warts on my face are fake.”
Wynter felt her brow crease. “No, they still look real.” They wouldn’t be there at all if the blonde didn’t use herself as a trial subject when she created new potions. Some caused all kinds of aftereffects. Rashes. Hallucinations. Bad guts. Perhaps even the belief that you were the reincarnation of Bloody Mary . . . unless Anabel’s claim to be exactly that was in fact true. Her soul did have the ability to retain all her memories from her past lives, to be fair.
Wynter sighed. “If you’d just stop experimenting—”
“I know, I know,” said Anabel with a flap of her hand.
“And yet, you keep doing it.”
The blonde’s back straightened. “Excuse me, I’m not the only person here who has bad habits.”
Xavier’s brow knitted. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Anabel sniffed at him. “It means you lie all the time for no real reason. Hattie is always asking random people embarrassing questions about sex. Delilah keeps cooking up self-proclaimed karma potions that will one day get her shanked. And Wynter keeps coming back to life every time she dies—part of being a revenant, yeah, but it’s still freaky. So, you know, I don’t think any of you should be throwing stones at my glass house.”
“I’m sensing you’re expecting us to be fair,” said Xavier. “Why?”
Anabel plucked at her skirt. “I guess I thought it would be a nice change.”
“You reached too high,” he told her, scratching at his head with a grimace. “Christ, could no one have warned me that the hair chalk makes your scalp itch like a mother?” His usual tousled brown hair had been slicked back and colored lime green to go with his outfit.
“You think chalk is bad, try wearing a veil,” grumbled Hattie. “I forgot how uncomfortable they are.”
“One would think, after the amount of times you’ve been a bride, that you would have remembered,” Delilah said to her. “But then, one would also think that you’d have chosen divorce over murder, even if you do insist on the first being a sin while the latter is somehow excusable.”
Hattie shrugged. “Divorce is too lengthy a process. It was quicker to just . . . help them pass on.”
Snorting, Wynter shook her head. The woman spoke like she’d arranged for her ex-husbands to die peacefully in their sleep but, yeah, it hadn’t quite played out that way. Which was why it was weirding Wynter and the others out that Hattie was dressed like a bride right now.
Wynter and her group hadn’t been a coven for very long, having only met for the first time when they’d been kidnapped by bounty hunters who she later killed. Well, to be more exact, it was the monster that lived inside her who was responsible for the deaths.
The position of Priestess hadn’t been something Wynter ever coveted. She’d resisted for a while, just as she’d resisted officially proclaiming them a coven—one that Delilah had named the Bloodrose Coven. But it had been a pointless resistance. Still, they were more of a family. A family with rather dysfunctional dynamics and a streak of crazy that couldn’t be tamed.
Hearing squeals, Wynter looked to see a mechanical hand zooming across the floor, scaring the dancers. She fingered her renaissance-style gothic gown as she glanced around. She had no idea whose idea it was to temporarily convert the warehouse into a cemetery-themed bar, but she saluted them. The dim lighting and dry ice machine made the place feel dark, chilly, and unwelcoming. Fake tombstones, dead flowers, hanging cobwebs, and open standing caskets revealing rubber skeletons added to the creepy factor.
Most patrons were in fancy dress, and many had had their faces painted. Most had also plied themselves with alcohol. They stood around in groups, danced on the manmade dancefloor, tackled iconic Halloween songs on the karaoke—most of which were from the 70s and 80s—or even played bowling with pumpkins at the other side of the warehouse.
The building normally stored vehicles—all of which were now parked in driveways or at curbs around the town that was smack bam in the middle of no man’s land. Woods, lakes, and mountains bordered the town. Varying types of houses were situated around it. Stores, bars, and restaurants could be found at the pretty plaza. Beyond those were warehouses, utility structures, and pastureland.
The town was vastly different from the medieval city below them, where many residents lived, including the Ancients—seven beings who’d founded Devil’s Cradle. Beings who could also grant people all sorts of things in exchange for their soul. Not weird at all.
The badlands landscape surrounding the town was wild and untamed with the hills, spires, and crooks. So very different from the lushly forested town of Aeon—a place she’d once lived before the immortal beings that ruled it unfairly decided to end her life . . . at which point she’d cursed the land with a wasting disease before fleeing.
It could be said that she was somewhat unforgiving.
Wynter took another sip of her warm cider. “Gotta say, as special events go, this is way better than that midnight 5k fancy dress run we did last night.”
“I agree,” said Hattie, reaching beneath her veil to adjust her fading red hair. “That race was brutal. My feet are still killing me.”
Wynter frowned at the elderly woman. “I don’t see why they would be. You didn’t run, you flew in your crow form. And you only completed half the race.”
“I got lost.”
Delilah snickered. “What happened to your avian navigation skills?”
Hattie shot the Latina a scowl. “I turn into a crow, not a homing pigeon.”
Wynter chuckled. The old woman hadn’t gotten lost during the race at all. Nope. She’d headed home so she could finish her book, and they all knew it.
Dancing on the spot, Delilah said, “Damn, I love Halloween.”
So did Wynter. And, as it happened, so did most of Devil’s Cradle—something she’d learned when a schedule of events was posted through the letterbox of their cottage in the underground city. The residents didn’t wait for the 31st of October to come crawling around; no, they began their celebrations on the first day of the month. All kinds of weird and wonderful events took place during the run-up.
Well, preternatural beings tended to like Halloween. It was a day for monsters, after all. And Devil’s Cradle was full of various species of preternatural, which was why it was also known as “the home of monsters”. Not a comforting nickname, no, but it didn’t stop people regularly coming here to seek the Ancients’ permission to stay.
Wynter and her coven—all of whom had a price on their head—had done that very thing. It wasn’t at all unusual for Ancients to give refuge to fugitives and outcasts. The seven immortals were outcasts themselves. They were banished from Aeon many moons ago after another breed of immortal they resided among had slaughtered their kind and dumped the only survivors here.
The price for sanctuary at Devil’s Cradle was steep. Residents had to sell partial rights to their soul to one of the Ancients, who would then brand them and provide them with shelter and protection.
Wynter wore such a brand on her palm—a “C” surrounding a triangle that had a snake slinking through it. The “C” stood for Cain, an Ancient who not so long ago marked her a second time when he claimed her as his consort. The seal looked as if it had been stamped on her inner wrist with a hot iron, so there was nothing subtle about it.
As of late, Cain no longer owned only partial rights to her soul. She’d sold all rights to him in exchange for immortality so that she could live a full life with him. It also meant that her soul was now once more anchored to this realm.
She had lost said anchor when she’d died as a child. If a deity hadn’t back then turned her into a revenant—a sort-of-undead witch that hosted a monster and was essentially an instrument of vengeance—Wynter’s soul would still be in the netherworld. Otherwise known as purgatory for preternatural beings.
“Apparently, there’s a crazy build up to Halloween every year,” said Xavier. “Some residents considered skipping it this time round, since things aren’t exactly great between the Ancients and the Aeons right now. War could be declared on us at any moment. But the majority of the townspeople figured that that was all the more reason to take the time to celebrate everyday stuff.”
“I half-expected people to resent that we’re all stuck in the middle of the immortals’ bullshit, but they don’t,” said Delilah. “They’re wholly pissed at the Aeons for invading their town. Twice. Our side won, sure, but people still died. Everyone’s pretty much hoping that Adam will retaliate so they can get rid of the threats once and for all.”
It would indeed be beyond wonderful if Adam met his doom like the other three ruling Aeons had recently done—it was a long time coming, in Wynter’s fine opinion. “I think he’ll come. He’s got to be pissed that not only is Abel dead but he was returned to Aeon in pieces.” Ha.
Cain had almost killed Abel once before long ago, but it wasn’t so easy to end the life of an immortal, and a healer had gotten to Abel in time to save him. It hadn’t worked that way the second time round.
“If he doesn’t come, do you think the Ancients will storm Aeon?” asked Anabel.
They likely wished they could, but the truth was that they were stuck here. The four ruling Aeons had formed an invisible cage surrounding the previously barren land that was now known as Devil’s Cradle.
The Aeons were actually Cherubim, but most people weren’t aware of that. Similarly, they weren’t aware that the Ancients were Leviathans. Both breeds were—along with the now-extinct Behemoths—the first creations of God. He’d assigned the four lesser deities Kali, Nyx, Nemesis, and Apep to watch over them. But . . . the deities had taken their eye off the ball, and many deaths had followed when the three breeds of immortal turned on each other. Twice.
The result? God turned his back on all of them, including the deities. And so he’d done nothing to free the Ancients from their jail. And why had the Aeons imprisoned them in such a way?
Short answer: They were assholes.
Long answer: They didn’t like it when people were more powerful than they were, and so they’d find all sorts of reasons to justify why they might then erase their existence.
Their main motivation was that they believed Cain had no right to exist. His parentage was . . . a dark matter, to say the least. He wasn’t merely a Leviathan, he was the son of Satan. Yup. She was the consort of the honest-to-God’s Antichrist.
Words he’d once spoken to her flitted through her mind . . .
“I am in fact one of the biggest monsters that will ever live. That, baby, is the Curse of Cain. And you, pretty witch . . . you now share in that curse, because I’ve claimed you as mine. And I’ll never fucking let you go.”
That was fine with her, though, because she didn’t want him to.
“I’m not sure what they’ll do,” Wynter prevaricated, unable to share much of the information that Cain had trusted her with.
Once, she’d believed that the Aeons and Ancients were the same breed of immortal because they were not only all part of the first civilization but were similar in many ways. They lived underground, were weaker if out in the sun, possessed impressive abilities, could sleep for long periods of time, and had long ago lost the ability to procreate.
But she’d recently learned from Cain that although the two camps of immortal were similar, they were actually two very different breeds. Hence why the Aeons didn’t share the Ancients’ ability to purchase souls. Though most people tended to believe the false rumor that the Ancients only possessed the ability because they’d sold their own souls to the devil.
Hattie sniffed and swept her gaze over the room. “On a more important note, I don’t see any butlers in the buff.”
“Why would you?” asked Delilah. “It’s a run-up-to-Halloween party. People tend to wear scary outfits.”
“Butlers can be scary.”
“Not with their asses hanging out.”
“I’d happily be the judge of that.”
Delilah nudged her playfully. “You need to stop being such a perve. It’s not like you don’t get sex on the regular.”
A wicked grin curved Hattie’s mouth. “My George should be here soon. We agreed to try some roleplay again later. I’m going to be the poor helpless woman who’s hypnotized by a vampire who then drinks her blood and ravishes her. Should be interesting.”
“Well, I’m hoping to score tonight. It shouldn’t be too hard while I’m wearing this getup.” Delilah gestured at her Catwoman outfit. A private joke, really, since she could turn into a black cat of any size—including a monstrous beast with iron claws. “It does wonders for my figure.”
It did indeed. It had snatched the attention of many males. But then—with her curvy figure, flawless dark skin, and long legs—Delilah did that no matter what she was wearing.
“The dude at the bar has been eye-fucking you for about twenty minutes,” Xavier told the Latina.
Delilah glared at him. “And you’re only telling me this now? Why?”
Xavier shrugged. “I’m the Joker tonight. The Joker’s an asshole. Ergo . . .”
Anabel leaned into him. “The woman who’s dressed as Harley Quinn keeps looking at you.”
“She’s the new werewolf in town, right?” Delilah hummed, twirling one of her short, tight curls around her finger. “I’ve heard that werewolves are kind of wild in bed.”
Xavier’s eyes lit with interest. “Really? Well then, maybe I’ll go introduce myself in a little while.”
“As Xavier, or as whatever name you come up with at the time?” asked Anabel.
He lifted his shoulders. “Does it matter?”
“It should,” said the blonde. “But I don’t suppose you’ll ever quite get that.”
The song changed, and Hattie perked up. “What a classic. Back in the day, I would play this song at home over and over. Reggie got so sick of it he threatened to snap the record in half if I didn’t stop listening to it so much.”
Wynter tilted her head. “And who was Reggie?”
Hattie’s lips thinned. “Husband number three. Serial cheater. Highly temperamental. Threw a porcelain cup at me once.”
Wynter frowned. “What? Why?”
“He realized I’d poisoned the tea he just drank.”
“Huh,” said Anabel. “It’s not entirely surprising that he threw the cup, then.”
“No, I suppose not,” said Hattie.
Anabel jumped as a scream came from the speakers. “Jesus Christ my heart can’t take this.”
Wynter felt her mouth twitch. The music might be loud, but it wasn’t always loud enough to muffle the sound effects of caskets creaking open, owls hooting, wolves howling, voices screaming, and the wind moaning. In general, Anabel possessed a nervous disposition, so the freaky sounds were easily getting her all worked up.
“Hey, Wyn, your man has arrived,” Delilah announced.
Wynter tracked the Latina’s gaze, and her stomach fluttered at the sight of the tall, lean figure of male perfection heading their way. Hooded eyes that were a striking lustrous black locked on her. A pleasant little shiver worked its way through her.
She vaguely registered that another Ancient, Azazel, was with him. Wynter only had eyes for Cain. His intense, unblinking, laser-focused stare made her think of a snake. So she hadn’t found it terribly surprising to learn that Ancients were in fact serpentine creatures—another thing that very few people knew. Sometimes, those eyes of his could look as empty as an open grave. Other times, they could be practically aflame with emotion.
Delilah let out a dreamy sigh. “Damn, Wyn, I know he’s yours and everything . . . but I’m gonna look occasionally. Because he’s so worth looking at.”
It was truly ridiculous just how unbelievably sexy he was. There was something so decadently predatory about him. Wicked. Utterly sinful. There was an edge of raw danger to him that warned any in his path that they were looking at the penultimate alpha male.
Hattie leaned into Wynter. “Do you think we’d ever get him to be a butler in the buff?”
Oh, the woman didn’t possess an ounce of shame. “No. No, I really don’t.”
Reaching Wynter, he boldly swallowed up her personal space, his lips canting up in a hint of a smile. “Evening, little witch,” he said, his voice deep, rumbly, and carrying a note of authority—a note that intensified ten-fold in the bedroom.
“Well hello,” she said, sliding a hand up his chest as she drank in the sight of him. A face so flawless should be somewhat annoying, but every single feature was a pleasure to behold. “I didn’t think you were coming.”
“You were taking too long to come to me. I missed you.” He dropped a soft kiss on her mouth. “Enjoying yourself?”
“I am, yes.” She let her fingers sift through his short hair. The strands were a deep, rich black that were impossibly dark in a very preternatural way. “I might even have a nice buzz going on, thanks to the drinks I’ve been knocking back. Don’t tell anyone.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He looked down at the corset of her dress. “I have so many plans for what to do to you later while you’re wearing this outfit.”
She smiled. “Always happy to be an inspiration.” Wynter went to say hello to Azazel, but his rich blue eyes were on Anabel.
“What’s with the boils and warts?” he asked her.
Anabel cleared her throat. “I’m allergic to crowds.”
He sent her a look that called her a liar. “You’ve been experimenting on yourself again, haven’t you?”
“Wow, I’m failing to see how that’s your business,” Anabel sassed. “And stop talking to me. Why do you always talk to me?”
Azazel shrugged. “I like to make people feel uncomfortable. You’re an easy target.”
The blonde blinked. “At least you’re honest.”
Xavier turned to Azazel. “Yeah, what’s that like?”
Cain put his mouth to Wynter’s ear. “I thought you said Hattie would be wearing a scary nun habit.”
“She told me she would be,” said Wynter. “I have to admit, I got nervous when she walked into the living room wearing that wedding dress. But she’s promised me she doesn’t intend to go marry George or even drag him into a handfasting. As long as there’s no such union, he’s safe from her black widow inclinations.”
Cain hummed, sliding a hand down Wynter’s back to rest just above the swell of her ass. “How long before I get to whisk you out of here? I want you to myself.”
“You want me naked.”
“That, too,” he admitted without apology. “First, though, I mean to hike that gown up around your waist and fuck you hard. Can’t do that here.” His eyes blazed with possession. “I don’t want anyone else seeing or hearing you come.”
Really, the dude was far more territorial than she would have thought he had the potential to be. Ancients just seemed so unmoved by so many things. Which would be natural if you’d been around since the beginning of time and there was little you hadn’t seen, done, or heard.
She hadn’t expected that the one night she shared with Cain would turn into a relationship, or that he’d one day grow to care for her. He hadn’t ever given her those three little words, but she didn’t need them. All she needed was—
A loud booming sound came from outside the warehouse and seemed to reverberate in the air.
Wynter jerked her head back. “Was that thunder?” It sounded like it, yet it seemed too close, and there’d been no build up.
“Yes.” Cain exchanged an odd look with Azazel. “But I don’t believe it’s a natural thunder.”
“What, why not?” Wynter frowned as the two Ancients headed for the exit. “Hey, wait!” She trailed after them, signaling for her coven to come along.
“What’s happening?” asked Xavier.
“No clue,” replied Wynter as they shrugged through the crowd now surging toward the exit, no doubt curious about the ongoing cracks of thunder. “But I’m gonna find out.”
Outside, she sidled up to Cain as she glanced up at the sky. Her mouth fell open. “What in the . . .” A cloud had formed, a face flickering within it like a static holographic image. A face Wynter recognized and would truly like to rearrange with a shovel someday. Her inner monster stirred, opening its eyes, not liking what it saw.
“D’you think it’s God?” asked Hattie.
“No,” replied Delilah. “I think we’re looking at something far from holy.”
Anabel grasped Wynter’s hand. “So this is how we die.”
Oh, for heaven’s sake. “We’re not going to die, and it’s not God.”
“Then who is it?” asked Xavier.
“People of Devil’s Cradle,” a booming voice crackled as the mouth of the face within the cloud moved. “For those who do not know me, I am Adam, the last ruling Aeon.”
Anabel’s eyes went wide. “Wait, he’s here?”
“No,” said Cain, though his gaze remained on the cloud. “Think of this as a news broadcast. We see him. He doesn’t see us.”
“I’m no doubt the last person you all wish to hear from,” Adam went on, his voice both compassionate and reasonable, “but I did not trust that this message would reach you unless I delivered it personally. The Ancients tell you only what they want you to hear.”
There was some truth in that. Actually, there was a lot of truth in that. But the Aeons were just as bad for only revealing what they wished to reveal, so . . .
“I do not want war,” Adam added. “I never did, in truth. All I originally wanted was for the witch who cursed my land to be handed over to me. Simple. Easy. Fair.”
He wouldn’t know what fair was if it slapped him in the face and force-fed him a cracker.
“Imagine if your own town was rotting,” he continued. “You would want the person responsible to undo their curse, would you not? It was all I asked; it was not unreasonable. But your leaders refused to surrender Wynter Dellavale to me, and so blood was spilled in your town. I want no more of that. Enough people have died on both sides, including my son.” The latter word reverberated with anger and grief. “But I will bring pain and suffering to your town if my needs are not met—I want Cain and Wynter to surrender themselves to the custody of my people. If they do, everyone else will then be left alone.”
Her stomach lurched. She looked up at Cain, but his eyes were fixed on the image in the sky.
“Until they appear at Aeon, I will punish the town of Devil’s Cradle itself at random times, and others will die,” Adam went on. “You may wonder what I mean by that or how exactly I would achieve it. You will never have to find out if my terms are met. My offer is a kindness. Two individuals are not worth the lives of so many.”
Wynter noticed in her peripheral vision that plenty of people were glancing her way. Hopefully they weren’t contemplating doing as Adam requested. Because she’d otherwise have to kill them, and that would be a bummer.
“I do hope for your sake that Cain and the witch make the right choice,” Adam went on. “But my feeling is that they will not, and so you may well have to take the matter into your own hands. I will pay one million dollars to anyone who delivers either Cain or the witch to me alive.”
Son of a bitch.
“Give me both, and I will award you two million,” Adam added. “Give me neither, and you will all pay for that mistake.”
The image of Adam’s face flickered and wavered. Eventually, it winked out, and then the cloud slowly dissipated.
Swiping a tongue over her lower lip, Wynter turned to Cain. “Well, this could be a problem.”
Cain sighed. “Yes, yes it could.”
As the seven Ancients sat around Cain’s dining table a short time later, he and Azazel relayed the incident that brought the night’s celebration to a screeching halt. Cain kept his voice cool and calm, pushing down the rage that threatened to fog his thoughts. It was no easy thing when said rage relentlessly crawled through his blood and simmered low in his belly.
Beneath the table, he flexed his fingers. A bounty. Fucking Adam had put a bounty on Wynter’s head. Again. Like once hadn’t been enough.
Cain supposed he couldn’t complain too much about the first bounty. After all, it had pushed her to seek sanctuary. It had brought her to Devil’s Cradle, brought her to him. Cain could never lament that. Selfish, maybe, but he was often that way where his consort was concerned. She thankfully let it slide much of the time.
He wouldn’t have imagined that he’d ever wish to claim a consort. But then, he never would have thought that anyone—man or woman—could make themselves indispensable to him. Wynter . . . she was vital to him. As necessary as breathing. Something he would never give up.
He’d been so numb before her. So detached from the world that he’d ceased to want things. Nothing had entertained, intrigued, or brought him any true satisfaction. Wynter had walked into his world, sliced through the listlessness, and settled into his life as easily as if it had been preordained.
He liked to believe that the latter was true. Liked to believe that she’d been made specifically for him. Because it often felt like she was.
She suited him in every imaginable way. She delighted his senses and appealed to him on every level. More, she enraptured his monster in such a way that its possessiveness of her wasn’t shallow.
The creature didn’t covet Wynter as if she was a pretty bauble. It saw her, recognized the witch as a person in her own right rather than a collectible item, and it coveted the entirety of her. Hence why it wanted to bind itself to her—something Cain hadn’t yet run by Wynter. He had no idea if she’d go for it, but he had hope, given that she’d sold him all rights to her soul and given up her mortality for him. That depth of commitment was nothing to sniff at.
Even back when so many secrets had ran riot between them, they’d still gradually built something. Something true and solid and long-lasting. And, despite what he’d feared, the revelation of his own secrets hadn’t destroyed what they’d built.
Wynter accepted him anyway. Accepted that, as a Leviathan, Cain was a gateway to hell for souls. Accepted the presence of his monster, despite that it was a thing of nightmares. More, she’d accepted that he was the only son of Satan—the darkest and most corrupt of the Leviathans who now dwelled in the depths of hell. Which wasn’t exactly easy to digest, let alone make peace with. But Wynter hadn’t pulled away from Cain for even a moment.
Really, she was a true marvel to him. He was quite certain there was no one like her. And not simply because she was far from a normal revenant.
It was fortunate that Adam had no clue just how important she was to Cain, or he would have placed an even bigger price on her head—one so high that it would have been all but irresistible to most who resided in Devil’s Cradle. Because Adam wouldn’t merely plan to use her to lift the curse on Aeon, he’d plan to torture her until the end of time.
Of course, the bastard wouldn’t find it so easy to keep her contained. The deity who’d marked and regularly watched over her would never permit it. Kali would free her somehow if Wynter didn’t manage to free herself. That brought Cain no real comfort, though. Because the thought of her in Adam’s custody for merely five minutes was too much to stomach. Especially when Cain would have no way to physically track and save her, courtesy of his fucking cage.
“I don’t understand,” Ishtar said to no one in particular, giving a slight shake of her head. “The things Adam said do not make much sense.”
Cain’s inner creature snarled at the sound of the Aeon’s name. It didn’t want to be there in that dining room with the Ancients. It wanted to be back in their bedchamber with Wynter, who’d agreed to wait for Cain there. His creature wanted access to the only thing that had the ability to calm it.
“What would be the point of putting a price on Cain’s head?” Ishtar went on, her cornflower-blue eyes cloudy with confusion. “Adam knows that even if someone did miraculously manage to subdue Cain, there is no way they would get him out of Devil’s Cradle—we are all trapped here.”
“Yes, we are,” said Azazel beside her. “But the majority of our residents don’t know that, do they? In their eyes, Cain could easily give himself up to keep them safe. And when he doesn’t, they may turn against him. I think that is what Adam hopes for. These people came to us for protection, after all. If they believe we’re neglecting their safety, they may choose to leave. And if our population lessens, we’ll have less manpower in the event of an attack.”
Sitting on Cain’s left, Dan
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
