Page 41 of Kazimir

I let myself believe him, just for a second.

Archon smiled, and for the first time, it reached his eyes. “You have chosen your fate, Arielle. Now claim it.”

I leaned into Kazimir, letting him hold me until the shaking stopped.

I was not a monster. I was myself—fallen, broken, but alive.

I would allow my mate to claim me as I would claim him, and we would fight the evil that came for me. I was Arielle Devon Wade damn it. Let them come.

Chapter 12

Kazimir

Iwatched Archon’s silhouette fade down the hallway until only his after-image remained, painted against the memory of candlelight and cold marble. Even then, I felt the echo of him—a pressure behind my eyes, an itch in the bones I’d long ago thought inert. When I turned back to Devon, she hadn’t moved. Her skin glowed with the faintest, most beautiful aura, not the relic of heaven but something new—hers and only hers.

She trembled. Not from fear. Not exactly. More like a body learning to inhabit itself after months of vacancy. I could not help but admire the way she endured, how she put herself together even when all her pieces were jagged and unfamiliar.

I took her hand and brought it to my lips, kissing the knuckles as if she might shatter. “He is gone, malen’kaya. There is nothing now but us.”

Her laugh was soft, brittle, yet eager to mend itself. “You don’t have to do that, you know. The whole ‘savior’ thing.”

I tilted her chin up. “It is not for your benefit.” I brushed her hair back, thumb tracing the line of her jaw. “It is for mine.”

She made a sound then, something half between a sob and a laugh, and it destroyed me. I wanted to murder Sariel a thousand times for every moment he’d frightened her. I wanted to find the cruelest corners of the world and raze them clean. Instead, I led her out of the room, into the corridor, and up the stairs to the suites above.

At her door, I paused. The words came before I could edit them, raw as a wound. “Let me care for you tonight, Devon. If you will allow it.”

She blinked, as if surprised by the idea that anyone might want to stay. Then she stepped in, so close our breaths mingled, and said, “I don’t want to be alone, Kazimir. Not for a single minute.”

A laugh, thin and wild, escaped me. I swept her up in my arms—not because she was weak, but because I needed to know she was real and here. I carried her the short distance to my bedroom door.

My suite did not resemble the rooms of the living. I preferred it that way. Shadows clung to the corners, devouring the edges of furniture so that everything appeared softer, even as the obsidian and onyx caught every slant of light. The fireplace was a slab of black stone, flickering only with the memory of fire. Above it hung a large painting of me and my family, dating back more than a hundred years.

The artist, a Venetian prodigy who owed me more than money, had painted me on a throne of petrified wood, my sons arrayed around me. Maksym and Taras stood on either side, arms folded and faces carved from granite. Nikolay and Bodhan knelt on one knee on each side. The royal princes were handsome and fierce. My crown was onyx, set with rubies and amethysts. I looked much as I do now only less tired.

On the opposite wall hung the only other painting I’d allowed in my personal space. This one was softer, the colors muted, as if dusted with the remains of twilight. My daughter, Lucia, joined her brothers in the painting. In the foreground, Lucia’s hand clung to mine, and I remembered the day the painter had posed us; how Lucia had refused to let go, even for a second. I could still feel the pressure of her grip in my palm, all these years later.

Devon walked to the paintings, silent as a shade. She traced the edge of the frame with one finger, then looked back at me.

“You must think I’m pathetic,” she said, not quite a question.

I crossed to her, standing so close she could not see the painting without seeing me. “No,” I said. “I think you are the strongest creature I have ever met. In a thousand years, I have never envied anyone’s resilience as I do yours.”

She blushed, turning back to the faces on the canvas. “You look so… alive,” she said. “I can see how much you love them all.”

I barked a laugh, sharp as shattering glass. “I love them too much. That is a dangerous thing for kings.”

She ran her finger along the little girl’s hand—Lucia, with her luminous gaze. “Your family,” she said, as if the concept still startled her.

“Yes. I am a lucky man,” I told her, the fondness evident in my voice. “They are few of the born vampires in our world. I know that I could have been a better father to them. I’ve done a miserable job.”

Her hand fell away. “That isn’t true.”

“It is truer than you want to believe.” I reached around her, pulled her back until she leaned against my chest. “What do you want to know, Devon? What can I tell you of myself that you do not know already?”

She leaned into me, arms crossing herself, the shiver barely contained. “So many things I want to know. But not tonight. I just want to know what it feels like to be safe with you. Just that.”

Her voice was smoke, blue and low. I turned her in my arms, brushed my lips over her forehead. “You are safe,” I promised, and felt the old magic ripple through the air—a vow that bound itself in blood and silence.