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Back The Starving Saints Save as PDF
Chapters (57)
  1. Cover
  2. 1
  3. 2
  4. 3
  5. 4
  6. 5
  7. 6
  8. 7
  9. 8
  10. 9
  11. 10
  12. 11
  13. 12
  14. 13
  15. 14
  16. 15
  17. 16
  18. 17
  19. 18
  20. 19
  21. 20
  22. 21
  23. 22
  24. 23
  25. 24
  26. 25
  27. 26
  28. 27
  29. 28
  30. 29
  31. 30
  32. 31
  33. 32
  34. 33
  35. 34
  36. 35
  37. 36
  38. 37
  39. 38
  40. 39
  41. 40
  42. 41
  43. 42
  44. 43
  45. 44
  46. 45
  47. 46
  48. 47
  49. 48
  50. 49
  51. 50
  52. 51
  53. Acknowledgments
  54. About the Author
  55. Also by Caitlin Starling
  56. Copyright
  57. About the Publisher

That drags a wicked laugh from him, and he leans down closer, so that their lips are almost touching. He looks into her eyes, and still, there’s some shred of desperation there. Some question. He didn’t want it to pan out this way.

Voyne didn’t want it to pan out this way.

It doesn’t matter who she’s talking to, not now. It’s both of them together. If the Loving Saint wants to devour her in Voyne’s skin, then he will take the brunt of all her combined rage, all her spite and vitriol.

“You never knew me. You will never know me. That core of me you were so keen to take the measure of, you’ll choke on it before you get the smallest part of me. You’re weak, pathetic, hungry, clawing after scraps, too afraid to rule yourself.” When Treila grins, she knows there’s blood coating her teeth. “What you wouldn’t give to be in charge, but you’ll never have the strength. Too busy aching in the shadows. We’re the same, the two of us. You’re just desperate to be seen. So desperate you’ll kill for it. Die for it.”

The Loving Saint falters, finally. Stares down at her, brows drawn together, fist loosening around her throat.

It’s an opening. It’s the last opening she’ll ever get. It’s action or death and, above all else, Treila refuses to die.

So she arches up and kisses Voyne’s split and bloodied lips.

40

40

Treila de Batrolin, fierce and broken, kisses like she is dying.

Voyne returns her fervor before she can think better of it, blood high in her ears, body trembling. This is who she could not see. This is the hole in the world. The iron she’d gripped so tightly must have pulled the scales from her eyes, and revealed Phosyne’s co-conspirator, her way out. Treila de Batrolin.

She is the living embodiment of the moment Voyne began to doubt, before she was King Cardimir’s decorative defender, before she was reduced to ornamentation, stolen from the field. When Lord de Batrolin plotted against her liege, Voyne had turned without hesitation on an old friend, a mentor, and slaughtered him in front of an audience.

In front of this girl, trusting and so full of promise.

She’d meant to keep track of her, after. To keep her safe somehow. She’d failed, and Treila had been lost, thought dead. The winter had been hard. The winter had been more than hard. Later, Voyne had read reports of what was found when the ice thawed: bodies reduced to gnawed and pot-polished bone, the refugees of de Batrolin’s household reduced to nothing.