Carrick's pale gaze sharpened when Hermes glared at him. At last, he was seeing some of the unpredictability and anger in the heart of every fae. He watched, still and silent as if he were made of stone, until Hermes had finished.
In a blinding blur of movement, Carrick sprang from his seat and took hold of the slave's throat, forcing him down on his back in front of the fire. His hand closed tightly around the pale neck, his fangs flicking out like small, viciously sharp knives.
He held the slave prone easily, his ancient strength pinning Hermes to the floor.
"You want death, boy?" he hissed. "Your death is not yours to seek. You belong to me. Your life, your death, your body, your blood - mine. Yes, I had Grace killed. And Adelice, who came before her. And hundreds of others, stretching back longer than you can comprehend." His voice was rough, his eyes darkening, black veins standing out in the sockets.
"What 'the hell you are supposed to be doing'; what you exist for, slave, is to obey me. In thought and word and deed. To spread your legs for me when I lust, and bare your throat when I thirst."
His voice, so rarely raised above a murmur, was a snarl amplified by centuries.