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“Then you’d be quite wrong.” Perhaps you only know because you do the same, he wished to say.
“Interesting.” Elarian laughed. The challenge in her voice almost made him smile.
Instead, Lucan turned away and reached for his jacket, carefully pulling it on as he surveyed himself in the mirror. The deep veins along his neck bulged each time his thoughts wandered toward Elarian. His eyes looked wild, deeply haunted, until he almost saw the man he once was gazing back from the polished mirror. Sighing deeply, he turned around to face the lethal assassin clothed in black.
“Come, darling,” he said viciously, letting the words fly from his tongue. “Listen well enough, and I may even give you the blade myself tonight.”
Elarian hummed with anticipation at his words.
thirty-eight
A Severed Thread
She walked through the corridors of the Blooded Palace as if she had always belonged.
That unsettled her more than the vampire countess with long, auburn hair down to her hips leading them to her private apartments.
The rumors had spread quickly; they always did. Lord Kyare’s death had been discovered before sunrise, his body arranged exactly as Lucan intended. A lover’s quarrel. A jealous argument between two powerful vampires who had spent decades tangled in one another’s beds and ambitions. A tragedy of passion rather than politics.
No one looked at Elarian. No one saw the assassin standing beside their prince.
To them, she was merely the latest indulgence of Lucan Valmere—a dangerous-looking creature dressed in black silk, beautiful enough to be interesting and harmless enough to ignore. The irony almost made her laugh, because beneath their whispers and careful glances with the occasional flicker of envy from those who had once sought Lucan’s attention, the truth pressed against her skin tighter than the golden collar at her throat.
She had changed.
The court could not see it. Most days she couldn’t, either. But something inside her had shifted all the same, as undeniable as the tide. She had spent a century orbiting Lucan, always able to pull away at the last moment before they crashed into each other like two comets in the night sky.
Last night, they finally collided.
Their brief court appearance passed with the usual performance of obedience and deceit. She crawled—clothed, this time—by Lucan’s side, golden chain no longer linking prisoner and captor. After pushing him close to the point of breaking earlier, it felt deliciously wrong to prostrate herself at his feet. Elarian no longer ignored the secret thrills humiliating herself in front of his court brought her. Armed with the knowledge that she could end any of them with a simple flick of Lucan’s wrist, she readily crawled like a housebroken dog at his side.
Somber music floated through the court as lords and ladies bowed, offered their condolences, and pretended not to notice Lady Drevain dressed in black lingering by Lucan’s throne. He accepted every word with the same polished indifference he wore like armor.
Elarian watched him closely.
She had spent nearly half her life studying the Blooded Prince. Once, she thought she knew every expression he wore: every shift of his mouth, every tightening of his jaw, every flicker of irritation hidden beneath his elegant mask. Now she wondered how much she had missed—how much of him had been hidden because she never thought to look beyond the monster.
When Lucan finally tired of the meaningless condolences, he offered his arm to Lady Drevain with a practiced smile.
“My lady,” he said smoothly, “I trust we are still able to dine with you tonight. You did extend an invitation last week, as I recall.”
Drevain’s sorrow melted at his words, replaced with a wide smile.
She was beautiful in the way many ancient vampires were beautiful: sharpened by time, polished until nothing imperfect remained. Pale powders covered the dark veins coursing over her face, softening the harshness of her crimson gaze. Her auburn curls fell over one shoulder. Diamonds glittered against her throat as she looked between Lucan and Elarian.
A flicker of amusement crossed her features.
“Of course, Your Highness.”
Her gaze lingered on Elarian, one she knew all too well—the same one the moon elves had given her for centuries when they saw the Ashen Blade they wished to understand. A dangerous animal they wanted to touch, too frightened to approach lest she tear off the doors of her cage.
The three of them moved through the palace corridors beneath the watchful eyes of servants and courtiers. Lucan walked beside Drevain, offering polite conversation while Elarian followed slightly behind, the perfect image of obedience. The role came too easily now. Two weeks ago, she would have burned with rage at the thought of trailing behind him like a favored pet.
Now she found herself listening for the sound of his footsteps. Waiting for the brush of his fingers. Measuring rooms by his absence before she ever realized she was looking for him.
The golden collar rested lightly against her throat, chain gone.
She almost wished it remained.
