It’s not easy to make your adult debut, but M.K. Lobb has taken what she knows and dialed it up to 100 in this sinfully delicious novel. From incredible religious commentary to a steamy romance, we dare you to not be tempted with this noir-inspired fantasy.
"The Dark in Her Veins has existed in several different forms and sub-genres over the years. The most compelling part of the story, though, was always the central relationship between Talin and the Warden, and that’s why the final version ended up being a dark romantasy. I loved being able to combine themes of obsession, morality, and kink in a noir-inspired fantasy setting,” M.K. exclusively told Cosmopolitan.
Cosmopolitan has an exclusive look at M.K. Lobb’s The Dark in Her Veins, which is set to be released on August 25, 2026. The novel follows Talin, whose sins have driven her close the dead due to Bloodrot. But when her paths cross with the Warden, a temptation stronger than the will to live causes her to question everything.
“I asked myself three main questions while writing this: What would the world look like if it were run by an institution that continuously subscribed to moral panic? What happens when doctrine takes precedence over interpersonal relationships? And finally, what if two hot villains teamed up to carry out the impossible?," M.K. continued.
Here’s some more info from our friends at Sourcebooks Casablanca:
From critically acclaimed, bestselling author M.K. Lobb comes a noir romantic fantasy set in a world in which sin is a fatal disease, and the rich hire the poor to carry out their basest instincts―until the forbidden romance between a sinner and a mysterious figure threatens to destroy everything.
Nothing is sacred for those willing to pay the price…
In Valestadt, everything has a price. Sin leaves its mark in the form of the Bloodrot, a slow-creeping disease that leads to madness, then death. The rich outsource their violence. The poor sell theirs and suffer the cost.
Talin Keller is a sinner. Employed by the holiest man in the city, the Prophet, she stains her hands so his can stay clean. But with her Bloodrot rapidly advancing, Talin knows her next job could be her last.
Then a new assignment puts Talin on a collision course with the Warden, a shadowy figure whose name is spoken like a warning. If she can get close, she can trade his life for her own freedom―and escape the death her sins have promised. That is, if she can stay steady on the knife's edge.
Because Talin is dangerously drawn to the Warden. He is sharp, cruel, and whatever blazes in him sparks against every dark part of her. If she isn't careful, her plans will burn.
As savior and sinner tangle, Talin uncovers a conspiracy tied to the past she thought dead. And in Valestadt, where sin is currency, she'll have to decide what she's willing to pay to survive.
Ready to find out if you can truly resist this dark romance? Check out an exclusive excerpt below! Just make sure to pre-order The Dark in Her Veins so you can find out what happens next as soon as it drops!
5.
“Long before the ascension of the Regiment and the consolidation of state religion, there were whisperings of a creature that fed on demonic energy. Although indistinguishable from regular humans, diabolists were believed to have been created in the depths of hell itself.”
—The Diabolist: Myth or Monster?: pg. 2 (BANNED TITLE)
It’s immediately obvious that Tuonela’s is a speakeasy. The scent of liquor assaults my nose the moment I enter. Drugs and alcohol are illegal throughout Sundbourg—twenty or so years ago, the Regiment outlawed all varieties of both, claiming it would decrease violence and immoralityacross the country. It didn’t work, obviously, unless the goal was to give organized crime countless new business opportunities.
The speakeasy’s popularity tonight is a testament to that, but the place nonetheless has a surreptitious vibe. Jazz music drifts from a turntable in one of the corners, and patrons congregate around groupings of velvet chairs and vinyl sofas. Many bear the marks of sinners.
It’s uncommon to work as a hired sinner full-time, the way I do for Gabriel, but that doesn’t mean the average person isn’t sinning for their own reasons. Sometimes it’s necessary for survival. Those in a financial bind can even pick up one-time jobs from the wealthy—doing petty crime for hire can actually be a decent gig.
Overall, the establishments in the Trench are nothing like those in other parts of Valestadt. Rather than being unnerved, however, I find myself relaxing. This is a place where no one will eye my gloves suspiciously or wrinkle their noses at my hastily dyed hair. In fact, nobody so much as turns in my direction as I follow my unwitting mark toward the bar.
The other patrons give him a wide berth. He draws a considerable amount of attention in his all-black ensemble, and it’s obvious why. Sure, he’s startlingly attractive, but in an unnerving way. Not the kind of handsome you might see in an advertisement , but the kind most people are afraid to touch. He looks like someone you might cross the street to avoid. Someone you fuck once and never speak to again.
He braces his arms on the bar, flicking a hand at the man behind it. “An old-fashioned. And”—he shoots me a glance—“a corpse reviver.”
I nearly choke on nothing, though I’m able to discern it must be a type of drink. I’m irked he didn’t bother asking what I wanted. But arrogance makes for an easy mark, so I slink closer to him with a demure curve of my lips. “Should I take that as an insult?”
“Not at all.” The way he tilts his head is almost predatory. As he reaches for the drinks—which arrived instantaneously—I notice his wrists and the backs of his hands are tattooed as well. I can’t make out the designs in the dim light, but they narrow into cursive script that extends up his fingers.
I take the drink he hands me. It’s vile, but I level him with a sultry gaze over the rim of the glass. Swallowing deeply, I set it down, brushing my own gloved finger lightly over his knuckles. “I like these.”
“Do you?” He arches a dark brow—the color is at odds with his hair. “You’re going to love the rest of them, then.”
Arrogant and presumptuous. I want to laugh in his face. Instead I grin as though I find him delightfully witty, settling onto the stool at his side. “You haven’t even told me your name yet.”
Bemusement lifts one side of his mouth. “You didn’t ask.”
“I’m asking now.”
“Slade,” he says, taking a pull from his glass. That tattooed throat shifts. “And yours?”
I hesitate, but it isn’t like my name holds any real importance. I’m playing a game, after all, and I can’t shake the uncomfortable sensation that Slade is playing one too.
“Talin.” I lower my lashes. Time to steer the conversation. “You obviously come here often. What’s Rhamnousia?”
He props one elbow on the surface of the bar, leaning close so I can better hear him over the dull cacophony of voices. “A goddess of revenge. Retribution for arrogance, if you want to get specific.”
“I take it you admire her.”
“I admire anyone who enacts vengeance when merited.”
“I can drink to that.”
Slade’s glacial eyes lock with mine as he drags his tongue along the ridge of his teeth. Despite my earlier assumptions, he doesn’t look at me like a man possessed by lust. He looks at me like he’s trying to decide whether I might be good to eat.
“You obviously don’t come here often,” he purrs, and I know he isn’t just talking about the speakeasy.
I shrug. “I don’t have much reason to.”
“Not even for the alcohol?”
“I usually prefer to keep my wits about me.” The moment I say the words, I regret them. They belong to me, not my flirty alter ego.
“Always a good idea.”
Though he speaks mildly, it sounds like a threat. I narrow my eyes. My every instinct tells me to get away from this man, but at the same time I want to see just how close I can get. The two feelings are impossible to reconcile. I need to cut to the chase.
“So. You have your finger on the pulse of the Trench,” I begin, and Slade’s easy grin turns wicked.
“You have no idea.”
“Tell me, then.” I lean closer, conspiratorial. Our faces are mere inches apart now, each of us resting an arm on the bar. He smells like something spicy laced with smoke. “Have you heard the rumors about the Solemn Apostles?”
His sharp jaw twitches. There’s the barest shadow of scruff along it, further confirming my assumption that he’s naturally dark-haired. “You mean how the community near Valestadt burned a few years ago? That’s not a rumor, sweetheart. I always said the faithful were fools for holding their services by candlelight when every temple is made of lacquered wood.”
Don’t I know it. The Regiment refuses to install electricity even in more recently built temples. “I mean the rumors that they’re back.”
“It’d take longer than three years for a new community to come together. Most of the surviving children aren’t old enough to pick up where their parents left off.” Slade cuts me a sideways look. “If it’s rumors you’re interested in, how about the one where they sacrifice their own to keep the devil at bay?”
I scoff, tempering the sound at the last second. “And do you think it’s true?”
Slade lifts his glass to his lips again, studying me. Never have I seen such cold eyes; every glance seems to issue a challenge that I’m determined to meet.
You can’t frighten me, I want to tell him. I imagine drawing a finger across that pouty mouth. I don’t feel fear—I inspire it.
“I don’t think the devil would care for anything humanity has to offer him,” Slade says eventually, voice smooth. “Except, perhaps, for their sins.”
“And are you a sinner?” My question is teasing. The tattoos, the obvious vigilance, his familiarity with the Trench… Combined with the air of danger surrounding him, he’s surely someone’s prized weapon.
His teeth flash. “You have to ask?”
“For who, then?” Nobody high up in the Regiment would hire someone who looks so blatantly like a sinner. Perhaps I was right about a connection to organized crime.
“Would you answer me if I asked you the same question?”
I give him a sly look but remain silent.
“That’s what I thought.” Slade sets his drink aside, rising to his feet. There’s something about the way he moves—a sort of feral energy, yet at the same time each action seems carefully calculated. “Let’s take this someplace more private.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. He’s propositioning me. No, that isn’t quite right—he didn’t ask a question. He simply assumes I’ll follow him. Obviously he isn’t accustomed to being turned down.
Part of me wants to say no for that very reason. Another part of me, though, suspects he has more information than he’s let on. And if there’s one thing I know to be true about men, it’s that they speak more freely once you get them thinking with their cock.
Besides, hooking up with Slade won’t be any hardship. There’s a third part of me that isn’t thinking strategically at all: a part of me that wonders how he would feel, how he would taste, and whether his tattoos continue all the way down his body.
He looks like a man who uses teeth. Which is, incidentally, the only kind of man I’m interested in.
“Lead the way,” I tell him.
Perhaps I should be more worried about being alone with Slade, but when the most powerful man in Sundbourg is your employer, dropping Gabriel’s name is usually enough to ensure your protection. If that doesn’t work, the pendant bearing the Markovich crest does the trick.
Eyes track our progress as Slade leads me to a door in the darkest corner of the speakeasy. Several patrons are smoking here, blanketing the area in a light, acrid haze. The record player spins something darker, quieter. Slade circumvents the final group in our path, and I trail a finger up his arm as he wrenches the door handle.
The room adjacent is an empty lounge. An overhead light is on—a single bulb that flickers and sputters in its valiant attempt to cast a fluorescent glow over the space. It alternates between buzzing dully, then more audibly, like a fly slamming over and over into a pane of glass. I take quick stock of my surroundings. The lounge doesn’t deviate much from the rest of the speakeasy, though less care has been taken with the atmosphere. The door on the opposite side of the room is clearly marked as an exit, which pleases me. I like to have an escape route.
The bulb flickers again as Slade shuts the door. Up close, he’s even more severe-looking. I can see every tendon in his tattooed neck down to the hollow at the base of his throat. The harsh platinum of his hair has begun to fade on the sides, which are cut very short. There’s a small golden hoop through one of his nostrils, and another through the cartilage of his left ear. He looks like the physical manifestation of a bad decision.
“You know,” he says, voice silk-soft, “I could tell what you were from the moment I saw you outside. Someone is very lucky to have you.”
I remember him calling me little sinner, and how I’d fought not to let it irk me. I make my own voice teasing when I respond. “That they are. You’d better tread carefully.”
He takes a step closer, then another. I move with him, letting him shepherd me backward, stopping when my shoulders collide with the wall. I get the sense that he’s gauging my reactions, and I reach for him, impatience making me bold.
The lapels of his jacket are smooth beneath my gloves. If Slade wonders about them, he doesn’t say as much. He lets me pull him close, a low, bemused hum escaping his throat. Heat erupts in my stomach at the sound, and I drag my gaze over the shadowed angles of his face. Every part of him looks sharp to the touch. I lift one hand, intending to caress his cheek, but he catches me by the wrist.
“I am not,” he murmurs, “careful.”
It’s a clear warning. An opening for me to back away. Instead, I shutter my eyes as he turns my hand over, examining the discolored lattice of my veins where they disappear beneath the sleeve of my jacket. I’m not a self-conscious person—not until it comes to the Bloodrot. In any other encounter I might snatch my hand back rather than allow him to examine me, or else demand we turn the lights out. This time, though, all protests dissolve on my tongue.
It’s been far too long since I was touched like this. His lips don’t form a prayer, and there’s no disgust on his face. No sadness or pity. There’s only desire. That, I think, undoes me more than his appearance ever could. The delicate underside of my wrist responds to his caress as if it’s suddenly become the most intimate part of me, and something feral builds within my chest. My breaths come faster as his grip tightens, bordering on painful. I wonder if he can tell that I like painful.
He lifts my hand, slamming it to the wall above my head and pinning it there. Then, as if reading my mind, he lowers his head to bring his lips to my ear. “You don’t strike me as a woman who likes it gentle. Are you?”
“You don’t strike me as a man who cares either way,” I fire back, but I’m audibly breathless. I tilt my chin up, giving him better access to my neck, and shutter my eyes against the overhead light.
“On the contrary. I care very much.” So fast that I’m not quite sure how it happens, Slade’s body is flush against mine. He presses against me, trapping me between him and the wall as ink-laced fingers wind into my hair. I give an involuntary shudder as his teeth scrape my throat. The pressure is delicate, driving me wild, and I huff a laugh. I’m surprised at the intensity of my own reaction, especially when it comes to this man far too cocky for his own good.
When he shuts his mouth, though, Slade exudes a confounding sort of draw I can’t wrap my head around. For the first time since I can remember, I don’t want to fuck just to feel something. This is more animal, more urgent. I want his teeth pressed into my skin until I feel the ache. I want to remove my gloves, dig my nails into his flesh, and leave crescent marks in my wake. I am hot, so hot, and all I can smell is the smoke-and-spice scent of him.
I try to conceive of a question to ask him, a way to get the answers I came for without arousing his suspicion, but my mind is strangely foggy. I feel control slipping in a way I neither like nor understand. Some dim corner of my brain remembers the drink—did he drug me somehow?
“Stop,” I bite out.
Slade pulls back at once, and for a moment his features put me further on edge. They’re dark. Hungry. Almost inhuman. When he blinks, however, he looks normal again. Confusion sits in the divot between his brows, but somehow I get the sense it has nothing to do with my sudden rejection. Wrongness erupts at my core.
“I have to go,” I say.
I watch the rapid flutter of his pulse beneath his jawline. “Are you sure?” His voice is too enticing. “Is there nothing you’d like to share with me?”
I don’t know what the fuck that means. Foreboding has become a physical sensation that creeps across my skin. Keen to make my point, I grab the chain at my throat, turning the face of the pendant toward him. The Markovich symbol flashes in the dim light.
Slade’s reaction isn’t what I expected.
There’s recognition, of course, but what follows isn’t fear. Instead, he leaps away as though I’ve burned him, eyes positively glacial.
“What the fuck,” he snarls, “is that?”
6.
TENET 2: You shall not long for, or attempt to acquire, that to which you do not possess a rightful claim. This is the sin of covetousness.
—The Prophet’s Modern Translation of the Holy Book
“Answer the question.” Slade slams me against the wall again, this time with enough force that the breath hisses out of my lungs. He doesn’t seem to be breathing at all.
I drive the heel of my palm into his chest, sending him stumbling back. “Seems you already know exactly what it is.”
I’m not afraid of you, my stony expression tells him.
His says, You should be.
That earlier grin has become a veritable baring of teeth. Humorless. Dangerous. “I assure you,” he grinds out, “I am very familiar with the Markovich crest.”
Before I can react, he wrenches the pendant from my neck with a sharp snap. The sound of it clattering to the floor is too loud against the low, distant hum of the patrons next door, and I’m acutely aware that nobody would hear what happened in this room.
I raise my brows. “Really? That was childish, even for a man like you.”
“Be thankful I broke your necklace and not your neck.”
“You ought to know better than to threaten me.”
He makes a sound in his throat that might be a laugh but reminds me of nails scraping metal. “Do you truly think I fear Gabriel?” he asks softly, surprising me by using the Prophet’s given name. “What was your plan? To seduce me, then kill me? Did you really think it would be that easy?”
The series of questions throws me even more. “In case you’ve forgotten, you’re the one who found me.”
“Because you wanted me to, I expect.”
I can’t help my scoff. “Haven’t you heard? Egotism is a sin. I don’t have a clue who you are.”
“Deceit is a sin too,” Slade retorts.
I don’t know what he did to anger Gabriel so much that he thinks I’m here to kill him, but I don’t particularly care. Since there’s no way to prove him wrong without showing my hand, I go for the second-best option.
I do try to kill him.
He’s too close for me to shoot him with any degree of accuracy, so I opt for the knife in my coat. Killing with a blade is messy, but I’m adept at finding the crucial artery. If you do it right, fifteen seconds is all it takes for someone to go from shocked to unconscious to dead.
I can’t tell whether I hesitate or Slade moves too fast. Too fast for me to stab him, certainly, but also just too fast in general. I can’t make sense of the way he twists his body out of my knife’s path. His evasion spurs me on, though, and adrenaline dilutes the stab of unease from moments prior. I no longer care who Slade is, or why he thinks I was sent to him. I don’t care that I’d briefly known the feel of his lips on my skin, the heat of his breath at my ear.
This is what I’d needed. A chance to kill someone who deserves it. A fight with someone who will fight back. I’m not exceptionally skilled in combat, and my size puts me at a disadvantage, which is why I’m accustomed to fighting dirty.
Do what it takes, Gabriel told me once, shortly after I began working for him. Pick the maneuver that seems underhanded. Minimum effort, maximum impact.
“You really are a fool,” I growl at Slade, who now stands a handful of steps to my right. Mutinous heat has spread across my cheeks. “What makes you think the Prophet would spare someone like you a single thought?”
Slade’s chest rises, then falls. Too steady. His stance radiates nonchalance, as if my attack barely lifted his heart rate. His expression is as cold as his eyes. “Feigning ignorance, are we? It’s not the tactic I would have chosen. Unfortunately, now that Gabriel knows of this place, I’m left with two options.” He holds up his index and middle fingers. “Burn it down”—he folds one of his fingers—“or kill you. And I’m not keen on destroying my investments, you understand.”
Then he lunges.
It’s immediately, horribly clear that I’m going to lose this. All at once Slade pins me to the wall again, his grip bracketing the wrist of my dominant arm. I try to pull free, but he’s far too strong, and the knife dangles uselessly from my fingers. His other hand snaps to my throat.
“Get the fuck away from me,” I snarl, braced for him to cut off my airway, but he only traces a finger along the tendon at the side of my neck. My traitor flesh pebbles at his touch, yet this time I strain away from it. “Gabriel knows nothing of this place, okay? I came here of my own accord.”
Slade ignores me, his finger gliding to the top of my sternum. “A pity,” he murmurs, lips scarcely moving, and I know the words aren’t directed at me.
He’s already anticipating my death.
I hunch my shoulders, willing myself to appear cowed. Then, just as I feel his grip tighten, I knee him in the groin. It’s clear he didn’t anticipate the strike, and I spin to the side as he doubles over.
“You know what your problem is?” I push away from the wall, narrowing my eyes. “You’re overconfident.”
Slade recovers with a predatory shake of his head. “I have reason to be.”
“Does it get tiring, pretending to be such a smug fucking bastard?”
“No.” The reply comes whip-quick. “And for the record, I’m not pretending.”
I lash out with the knife again, intending to make a swift, clean cut at once through his carotid and jugular. He barely dodges it, coming away with a slash through the collar of his jacket and a small nick under his ear. A thin line of blood trickles a haphazard path onto his collarbone.
The blood is black, a strange sheen to it. Like oil slick.
The world screeches to a halt around me.
You will know a diabolist by their blood. My mother’s words suddenly echo in my mind. A warning, intended to frighten children into submission. Not human, but a creature of sin.
No. There’s no fucking way. Even as I watch the slow seep of onyx blood into the fabric of his shirt, I’m convinced there has to be another explanation.
Slade smiles. “Is there a problem?”
He’s goading me. He doubtless saw the shift in my face and knows what I’m thinking.
It can’t be true, and yet it all aligns. The inexplicable agility. The sense that he wears some veneer of humanity, and how I was drawn to him despite my better judgment. The way he’d asked, Is there nothing you’d like to share with me?
Had he wanted my confession? Had he known I was a sinner because he could sense it? It’s nothing short of absurd. But I’ve seen how others react to him—how even the bouncer was unnerved by his presence here, in this place he referred to as his investment.
All at once I know who he is. Worse, I know what he is.
I speak through my teeth. “I didn’t think your kind were real.”
Slade tilts his head, the artificial light gilding the curve of his neck. “And what do you think now?”
“I think the rumors about the Warden of the Trench being a diabolist are true, assuming we ignore the fact that you’re supposed to be extinct.”
The amusement on his face grows more pronounced. “Despite your Prophet’s claims to the contrary, his attempt to kill me didn’t quite take.”
“He tried to kill you?” I echo, right before the pieces fit into place. “Wait. Were you the last diabolist?”
“That’s what I hear.”
“So Gabriel is a liar.” A thrill ripples through me. I’d always suspected the story was bullshit, but now I have indubitable proof. Too bad that proof is probably three seconds away from murdering me.
“Of course he’s a liar,” Slade says scathingly, as if this should be obvious. “He always has been.”
My throat burns with more questions that I shove down. “I have no love for Gabriel—” I begin, but Slade flicks the words away.
“I’m not interested in your lies either. The only reason you’re not dead yet, little sinner, is that it would be a pity to kill you before you confessed to me. You see, I can always tell who the truly bad ones are. The ones who sin without remorse. I can taste it.”
I tense. Though I suspected as much, it’s worse to hear him say it—that he’s toying with me because he wants to feed. I don’t know what that entails. I don’t know if the stories my mother told me are true. I watch as Slade wipes at the blood on his neck, leaving a tar-like smear. Fear and fury make my voice an incoherent snarl in my chest. I try to force it into sharp assertion, but it comes out hoarse and soft. “You don’t know a damned thing about me.”
But he’s right: I am one of the bad ones. I do whatever terrible deeds Gabriel assigns me and rarely feel guilty about it. I’m no longer sure if it’s inherent, that quality, or if I somehow conditioned myself to be that way. What I do know, though, is that I won’t submit to confession. I can’t.
His gaze tracks the minute changes in my face. Those unnerving eyes are inscrutable, like a calm pool of frigid water. Prime for drowning, and not in the metaphorical, peaceful way. No—drowning in Slade’s eyes, I suspect, would leave someone thrashing as they hurtled toward suffocation.
“Why do you think you caught my attention?” he asks, brushing a tendril of hair away from my face. His touch is delicate, like a hesitant lover’s, but I know it’s intended to terrorize. “Did you think it was purely physical? That I chose you because I thought you lovely to look at?”
The words are mocking, but his voice takes on a melodic quality. My throat constricts. I can feel it: the desire to tell him whatever he wants to hear. To give in. To speak of things I promised myself I would never, ever say aloud.
Yes. Yes, in my careless idiocy, that’s exactly what I’d thought. I was so caught up in my own manipulative plans that I hadn’t bothered wondering at his.
I drop my gaze, trying to avoid his allure, and focus instead on the ink that wraps around his throat. In this light it’s impossible to tell what the design is. The art disappears beneath the collar of his jacket, and a moronic part of me wonders what lies beneath. What quotes and symbols might possibly hold enough meaning to a man like this, that he would ink them into his skin forever?
I swear I can feel my tongue beginning to loosen, and I clamp down on it. Absolutely not. My will, Gabriel always says, is the strongest thing about me. Far too many people have tried to break it, and none have yet succeeded. I am adamant that this man won’t either.
But perhaps I’ll let him think he can.
I draw my brows together in feigned confusion, relaxing my body in increments. Just enough for him to notice, but not enough for it to seem unnatural. I hope.
“That’s it,” the Warden—I refuse to think of him as Slade anymore, if that’s even his real name—croons, taking my chin between his thumb and forefinger. It isn’t a punitory action, but a featherlight touch, as if to reassure. I have to give it to him; the act is convincing. I wonder how many times he’s practiced it.
“I don’t…” I begin, then falter as if trying to hold the words in. The Warden leans forward, tucking my hair behind my ear and bringing his lips very, very close. Gooseflesh breaks out across my skin. I slide one of my hands into my unzipped jacket.
“Tell me all your terrible secrets,” he whispers.
For a clouded fraction of a second, I want to. I want to give him whatever he asks for and speak until my voice goes hoarse. I want to please him, to keep him close, and to know what he looks like when he smiles for real.
Instead, I shoot him.
The Warden hisses a breath through clenched teeth, a hand snapping to his stomach where the barrel of my gun hovers an inch from his shirt. Blood spurts ink-dark from the wound, slicking his fingers as he attempts to stem the flow, but I keep my focus on his face. Watch the way his nostrils flare and his jaw twitches as he fights to conceal his pain. His eyes are hardened steel.
I like it, watching him hurt. Knowing I fooled him, this man who fancies himself so powerful.
“Interesting,” I say. “Not invincible, then. Someone ought to make a note of that.”
His sharp exhale might be annoyance but could well be agony. He sinks to his knees, scrabbling at the place where the bullet entered his flesh. Blood drips onto the floor, black and viscous.
“Clever,” he grits out as I track a semicircle around his hunched form. “I’ll admit, I haven’t gotten that reaction before.”
“I’m sure it won’t be the last time.” I inch toward the door. “Some people aren’t fond of manipulation.”
I realize the irony even as I say it, but it’s too late. The Warden pauses, his shoulders quivering.
Then he throws back his head and laughs. It shakes his whole body, and though the action makes him wince, he seems unable to help himself. There’s a manic edge to the sound. He keeps his free hand braced against the floor, fingertips leaving bloody smears on the wood. I’m momentarily frozen in bewilderment. My gun is still pointed at him, but if he notices, he doesn’t care.
As his amusement dies, he staggers to his feet, wiping his hands on his now-tattered shirt. His lovely face is contorted in a rictus grin. Impossibly, the blood has already stopped oozing from his abdomen. He still looks uncomfortable, but he’s clearly no longer in pain. With a final grunt, he flicks something to the ground. It hits the wood with a soft metallic clink before rolling to a stop beside my boot. I recognize the tiny object at once.
It’s a bullet. A spent, blood-smeared bullet. That’s why he appeared so preoccupied with the wound at his core: He hadn’t simply been trying to stop the bleeding but had dug the projectile out of his flesh with his bare hands.
There’s no way he should be walking toward me, stiff and pale but otherwise unharmed. My shot should’ve punctured the major artery running through the digestive tract. He should be dying, or at the very least, bleeding a hell of a lot.
But the Warden only clicks his tongue. “Diabolists heal very quickly,” he advises me. “You might want to make a note of that.”
A thousand curses spring to my tongue, but I’m not sticking around to exchange barbs. Praying diabolists don’t regain mobility nearly as fast as their skin stitches back together, I launch myself out the door and run like hell itself is on my heels.
Though not before shooting him a second time, just to be sure.
Copyright © 2026 by M.K. Lobb
The Dark in Her Veins, by M.K. Lobb will be released on August 25, 2026 from Sourcebooks Casablanca. To preorder the book, click on the retailer of your choice:
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