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And every vampire in the room looks at me as if I’m the most dangerous thing they have ever seen.
2
EIRA
The Lower Vaults are much less charming when you’re being escorted there half dressed, throat bitten, tongue bleeding, and surrounded by furious vampires who keep looking at you like you might explode.
To be fair, I might.
There’s a very real chance I’m one sharp comment away from either stabbing someone or having a hysterical breakdown, and since the latter sounds embarrassing, I’m keeping one hand close to my nearest blade and the other wrapped around the sheet like dignity is still an achievable life goal.
Valentin is carried ahead of me.
Carried.
That, more than anything, shakes something loose inside my chest.
Four of the Twelve move him with careful, reverent efficiency, their hands placed as if they’re transporting a deity, a weapon, and a sacred relic all at once. He looks too large for helplessness. His black hair spills across Aaron’s sleeve, his chest bare, his lower half wrapped in torn sheets.
I keep staring at the thin black-red line branching up his throat and behind one ear, and each time I do, my stomach twists harder.
Gods.
He looks like death came for him, found him inconveniently stubborn, and decided to wait in the room, playing mind games with him.
‘Watch your step,’ Luca says beside me.
‘I’m barefoot, half naked and walking into a vampire basement. Trust me, I’m watching everything.’
His gaze flicks to the sheet, then away so fast it’s almost gentlemanly. ‘Your clothes will be brought down.’
‘How generous. Was that before or after everyone discussed whether to rip my throat out?’
‘No one is ripping your throat out.’
Yet.
‘Forgive me if I don’t find that soothing when Captain Murder Glare has been staring at my carotid artery for three corridors.’
Malachi is walking ahead, but I know he hears me. His shoulders tighten by a fraction.
Petty? Yes.
Necessary? Also yes.
The corridor slopes downward, deeper into the Tower, past levels I didn’t know existed. The air changes as we descend. Less polished money, more old stone and sealed magic. The walls narrow and low lights burn in sconces that throw a steady amber glow over black marble veined with something faintly red.
Bloodstone, maybe.
Because of course a vampire king would have decorative blood-adjacent architecture.
My throat throbs. I press the sheet higher, fingers brushing the bite marks. Sharp pain darts through me. Under my tongue, the tiny cut from Bride’s Mercy still stings.
I nearly told him I was Lyra Hannigan.
Twice.
And the potion stopped me with a violence that has Selphine’s fingerprints all over it. The old crone called it mercy. Right now, it feels like a muzzle with spikes.
