Page 69 of Nocturn

She saw nothing. Panic tightened in my throat like a growing boulder. That dratted bloom in my belly trembled, reacting to her claim. I squeezed Piper in a hug, taking in the smell of straw clinging to her fur.

‘Please be careful,’ she whispered inside my head.

“I will see you soon.” With those final words, I approached Egan and pressed her into his arms. His fingertips grazed my arm as he took her, and he inhaled deeply.

‘Is he smelling you?’ Piper mused.

I only gave her a look as I pulled away.

“Please take this to Branwen. She will place it on my bed for me,” I said, taking my journal from where I tucked it under my arm and handing it to him.

Egan nodded tightly, taking it in hand while his other arm cradled Piper gingerly. He had gotten better at holding her. He jerked his chin down, and my shoulders relaxed. I trusted him to be kind to her.

The one creature that had been around me for my entire life. Who knew me best.

She saw it.

No, but she did not understand. It was not that I fancied Lord Draven. It was about the pleasure I experienced in his arms.

Surely.

Egan disappeared around the hedge. The warmth at my breastbone faded with Piper’s absence.

Drusilla’s intense focus had not left me. She stared as if I were on display. I could never get a read on her. She did as she was ordered, always, and she was the picture of poise . . .

I supposed, as the one that had to provide Lord Draven with his every whim, she would need it.

“The carriage awaits.”

I curtsied, acknowledging her words and waiting for her to lead the way, despite knowing the turns and spirals like the back of my hand at this point. It was best that I keep that tidbit of information to myself. Posing as a helpless, inept woman would make people not look at me too closely.

I kept a few paces behind Drusilla. Her gown, cut from the richest samite, swayed around her. Every black gown she owned shared the same silhoutte—the same high collar, the same sleeves—but the weave was never the same. A stranger would think she wore one dress daily.

We wound through the maze of hedges until it spat us out.

Assuredly her chamber would need to be particularly large with how many gowns I had seen on her.

“Has Lord Draven returned?”

She slowed for a moment, then continued.

“Yes, he has, and he is in need of bathing. I offered to have one of the other feeders bathe him. Yet, he wanted you summoned.” She peered over her shoulder at me, running her eyes down my frame. I was still ruminating on her statement. “Seems like he is quite fond of this body.”

My face flushed at the pointed comment. Was I . . . pleased?

I pressed my lips into a flat line. My situation was entirely twisted. She had reminded me I was nothing more than a body to the Warlord, yet I struggled to stamp down the anticipation to see the immortal man I would betray.

He had allowed me access to the Gardens and given me a journal in his absence—all for a ‘filthy redblood’.

Saints, he muddled my thoughts—cruel one breath, generous the next.

I straightened my spine more with each step we wound through the parlors through the House of Lords, toward the Grand Hall. Officers were posted at every point.

Entering the Grand Hall sent a wave of cold air over my skin. It was always chilly in here. The clipped click of Drusilla’s heels echoed around the cavernous Hall until we reached the outside steps leading to the carriage.

I followed her on, ignoring the tentative outstretched hand waiting to hoist me up. This was the same officer who had turned from me before. He shut the carriage door, and it began to move.

Drusilla was looking at me again.