Page 42 of Dhampira

“Let me do it, Majesty,” Lorcan said, producing a long, wicked-looking dagger. The blade glinted, reflecting the light from the orbs. “There’s no need to put yourself at risk.”

Why did he need a dagger? My stomach tightened, a dozen gruesome possibilities parading through my mind.

Rasimir appeared to consider the request. Then he waved Lorcan forward. “By all means. Get us started, my prince.” Rasimir looked at the woman, his eyes turning solid black. “Tiberi guro.”

The metal over her mouth disappeared.

“Thief!” she spat at Rasimir. She lunged for him, then cried out when the guard jerked her backward and cuffed her against the side of her head.

“Don’t!” I said, moving forward. The hate in her eyes stopped me cold as she fought the guard’s grip.

“And you,” she growled, spittle flying between us. “Blood traitor.” Her eyes glowed, her irises shining like stars. “Uc—”

A dark shape swept past me and then Lorcan was behind her with his fangs in her neck. Whatever she’d tried to say died on her lips as she slumped in his arms, her long brown hair spilling toward the floor.

Lorcan’s throat worked. He’d moved faster than I could track, knocking the guard to the ground and biting the woman before she finished a word. The guard got to his feet, his face pale as he resumed his spot by the cell door. The other guards stared straight ahead as if they had no inkling of the scene unfolding steps away from them.

The life left the woman’s eyes. Her mouth went slack, and her tongue lolled from her mouth. One gauntleted hand dangled against her tattered shift.

Lorcan ripped his fangs from her throat. His eyelids fluttered as he released her, and he let her body drop at his feet. Her head bounced off the stone with a dull, sickening thud.

Between one breath and the next, Rasimir pinned Lorcan to the wall by the throat. The king’s fangs mangled his speech as he hissed in Lorcan’s face.

“What are you playing at, boy? You were to open her vein, not drain her.”

Red crept up Lorcan’s jaw. A fat vein throbbed in his forehead, but he didn’t attempt to break Rasimir’s grip. He stayed limp as he wheezed his response through bloodied teeth. “The witch spoke the vor scapa. She would have killed.”

Rasimir’s fingers turned white. A faint crack sounded, and vomit seared my throat as I realized he’d broken something in Lorcan’s neck.

“The witch was depleted,” Rasimir said.

The red in Lorcan’s face deepened to purple. His eyelids fluttered once more, closing for a brief moment. When he opened them again, his eyes were fully black. More veins bulged in his face as he struggled to speak. “You are…mistaken, Majesty. She…retained enough…power to…kill.”

My heart stuttered at Lorcan’s foolishness. Was he insane, correcting Rasimir when the king was poised to crush his throat? But of course, I knew the answer. Yes. Lorcan was mad—drunk on dead blood and too far gone to understand his peril. My heart raced, fear and shock holding me immobile. The guards didn’t move. Lorcan’s challenge hung in the air. The whole dungeon seemed to hold its breath as Rasimir radiated power and rage.

With a final brutal shove, Rasimir released Lorcan and stepped back. Lorcan slid down the wall, one hand splayed against the stone as he gulped air. A few strands of dark hair had escaped the tie at his nape to spill over one round shoulder. Slowly the red faded from his cheeks.

Rasimir turned away, his face impassive as he straightened his cuffs. “Take my daughter to the glen tomorrow. Test her on one of the lesser creatures. Find out if I’m wasting my time.” He moved past me without acknowledging me, his footfalls loud on the stone. When they faded, I looked at Lorcan.

“Are you all right?”

He straightened, stepped over the dead woman, and caught my chin before I could evade his grip.

“Save your concern for the dryads, Princess. I neither need nor desire it.”

Rage boiled up. I tried to jerk from his grip, but he anticipated the movement and tightened his fingers. An ache spread through my jaw, and I battled back a whimper.

“Sergeant?” he called.

One of the guards sprang from the wall and stood at attention. “Yes, Your Highness?”

“Escort my betrothed to her chamber. She won’t attend tonight’s feast.” Glossy black eyes moved over my face. “Maybe one kind of hunger will trigger the other.”

My rage turned incandescent. “Get your hands off me,” I growled, clawing at his wrist.

His expression was mild—his cold, black eyes making his steady regard even more terrifying. “If you don’t like my hands on you, learn to remove them.” He released my chin and swept past me.

The sergeant moved to my side. Another guard peeled away from one of the cells and joined him. Humiliation joined my outrage. I’d been insulted, threatened, and manhandled. Now I was being sent to my room without supper like a naughty child.