Your Dark Gospel (Complete)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Astarion

"A wedding gift?" Astarion repeated, his words barely a whisper as he gazed down at the battered and gagged face of his master.

"There's nothing satisfying about achieving your life's goal with the words of a dusty old book, is there?" Raphael remarked. "Real power is seized. Earned by draining the lifeblood from your master's throat." He grasped the base of Cazador's neck and twisted, exposing his pale throat, then held out the dagger he and Elira had used to cut their hands, offering Astarion the hilt.

Astarion's fingers twitched, and then hesitantly, he took the dagger.

Revenge.

No—justice.

It was within his reach. Just a couple of steps forward and he could bury the hilt of his dagger in his master’s throat. He could take the blood that carried immeasurable power and be born again. Raphael was right. This option was infinitely more appealing than deciphering that decrepit old tome and sneaking around Cazador’s palace looking for a fight.

But it didn’t make sense.

“I thought wedding gifts were generally given to those getting married,” he gestured to Elira, whose fear and concern seeped through the tether that had somehow come back into place. “Would I be wrong in assuming there’s some sort of catch? He’s not just a gift, is he?”

“The catch, Astarion, is the real gift. With Cazador out of the way, with his power coursing through your veins, you will have everything you ever wanted.” Raphael smiled. “Except her.”

Astarion opened his mouth to respond, panic twisting his guts, but Raphael waved him away.

“There are no secrets in these walls.” The devil reminded him. “But do not fear. I’m willing to give you what you want. Stay. Keep my bride happy.” Raphael turned to Elira. “I’m not a villain, but a friend.” He wagged his finger accusingly. “A friend who holds up his end of a bargain.”

Astarion watched as Elira nibbled on her bottom lip and let her eyes fall to the floor. Her mostly exposed chest was rising and falling in rapid pants. The emotions that raced through her were like too many paints running together—the colors all mixing.

“Well?” Raphael asked.

Astarion’s eyes returned to Cazador, and his grip on the dagger tightened. He had everything, everything he could possibly want right here at his fingertips, and yet…

And yet…

He felt nothing.

There was no sense of victory in killing Cazador and replacing him with Raphael. Yes, he would have Elira, but at what cost? He imagined nights spent waiting for the devil to be done with her, worrying about her safety, and her wellbeing, watching her grow large with a child… a child that wasn’t his and could never be his.

Because they would be a prince or princess of the hells, and gods only knew what kind of upbringing Raphael had planned.

Elira would never be free under his thumb, not truly, and neither would he. Not if he accepted this gift.

A sudden realization struck him like a bolt of lightning. The realization that what was being offered to him was akin to what he had offered Elira.

He was scared. Scared that if he turned her into a true vampire, she would leave. Vampires were territorial creatures—prone to living alone with their spawn, not each other. He couldn’t risk his hold over her. His power. It was the only security he had to ensure that he wouldn’t lose her.