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At least that had reassured her—albeit slim—that this would grow into nothing more. Chains had made everything simpler. Every lingering touch, every fevered kiss, every impossible thing between them belonged to captivity. Without them, she had only herself to blame.

Whispers dogged their every step as the three withdrew to Lady Drevain’s apartments. “Temperamental bitch, that one,” one courtier snickered to another. “She even fakes mourning her lover.” For a breath, pity crept into Elarian’s heart. After hearing Jace Ataen speak so passionately about Lucan and the other great loves of his long life—over nine hundred years, much to her surprise—she no longer pretended to understand what melted a vampire’s frozen heart. The way Drevain wailed as they first announced Lord Kyare’s death still echoed in Elarian’s mind.

Lucan glanced back at her only once as they walked. A silent warning passed between them, his eyes dancing with wicked delight. Without breaking stride, his hand disappeared into the folds of his coat. Elarian quickened her pace until her shoulder pressed into his.

“Quiet now,” he whispered as he placed something cold into her palm.

Elarian’s fingers closed instinctively. Cold metal. He gave her a weapon—an assassin honed specifically to kill him—without so much as a flinch.

Unchained.

Unwatched.

And trusted with his very life.

Pulse stumbling, she glanced down at the blade in her hand. A fortnight ago she would have buried the blade beneath Lucan's ribs before he had time to regret his mistake. Tonight, she only curled her fingers around the hilt. Steel, not silver—not enough to kill him.

But enough to kill a single vampire if coated in godsbane.

She looked toward Lucan, a smile curling the edge of her lips. His expression never changed. The servants and lingering courtiers continued moving around them, unaware of the weapon now hidden between their bodies.

“Careful,” he murmured, eyes still fixed ahead.

A shiver ran down her spine.

“Of what?”

His lips barely moved. “Yourself.”

The dagger felt impossibly heavy for something so small. Its weight settled against her palm, a bloody promise she was too weak to deny.

Elarian slipped it into the folds of her sleeve with the practiced ease of someone who had hidden blades against her body since childhood. No servant noticed. No courtier glanced their way. Even Lady Drevain continued speaking about some meaningless dispute between neighboring estates, blissfully unaware that death now walked only a pace behind her.

Lucan had not even looked at the knife when he gave it to her.

He simply…trusted her. Knew that she understood exactly why the blade would fail against him and would instead become his weapon once more.

When had he become so certain?

Her fingers brushed the hidden hilt.

When had she?

That howling beast lurking deep inside her reared its head. Elarian gripped the hilt tighter until the metal bit into her flesh, and the thing quieted once more.

“...such dreadful business. My dear Kyare always did collect enemies far faster than lovers.” Lady Drevain sniffled as she spoke.

Elarian’s attention drifted away from the conversation once more. She found herself watching the elegant movement of Lucan’s hands as he listened, the slight inclination of his head whenever Drevain spoke, the effortless smile that never reached his eyes…The performance fascinated her now that she knew what hid beneath it.

Because she had seen him afterward. She had watched that perfect composure splinter beneath blood and moonlight until he trembled in her arms like a starving animal. The image of his mouth around her fingers had branded itself into her psyche.

Gods.

Heat crept beneath her collar despite the cool corridor. Her stomach lurched. Overcome with thirst, her tongue pressed unconsciously against the back of her teeth.

The bloodwine had quieted the craving only for a little while.

Already it stirred again.