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Lady Drevain never looked away from Lucan.
Steel slipped cleanly between her ribs, guided by centuries of practiced instinct. The poisoned edge found Drevain’s heart before surprise could fully register across her face.
A quiet gasp escaped her lips.
Wine spilled across black silks. Her crimson eyes lifted slowly toward Lucan. Understanding bloomed there far too late.
“It was…you,” she gasped through thick, wet gurgles.
Lucan regarded her with the same expression he might have offered an unexpected rainstorm.
“You wagered upon the wrong future, Drevain.”
The poison worked quickly. Lady Drevain’s fingers twitched once against the tablecloth.
Then again.
Her body slumped forward without another sound.
Silence reclaimed the room.
Elarian remained standing behind the corpse, one hand still wrapped around the dagger’s hilt. Blood welled around the dagger before spilling across the polished table in thin, branching streams, tracing crimson rivers through the carved grain. Her breathing remained steady even as the gnawing hunger answered at once, hotter than before. It unfurled through her body with frightening familiarity, settling beneath her ribs until her pulse beat in time with it. She did not look away from the corpse. Across the table, Lucan had not taken his eyes off her. His pupils had swallowed nearly all traces of crimson.
The room smelled of opened veins, spilled bloodwine, and the first, faint sweetness of poison working through dead flesh. Elarian had expected satisfaction. Relief, perhaps.
Instead, she found herself watching Lucan; breathless at the way his chest rose just a little too quickly, staring at the way one hand tightened around the stem of his untouched goblet until the crystal threatened to crack.
Slowly, Lucan stood.
He rounded the table with measured steps, each one echoing softly through Lady Drevain’s apartments. When he reached the corpse, he looked not at the dead countess, but at the assassin standing behind her.
“You’ve improved,” he murmured, raising his fingers to wipe a streak of blood from beneath her jaw with the back of one knuckle.
The touch lingered, sparks flying across her skin.
“So obedient for me,” he whispered.
Heat coiled viciously beneath her skin.
“I would have killed her without your direction.”
“I know.”
His thumb drifted lower, catching another dark crimson smear where it disappeared beneath the golden collar circling her throat.
“And I still would have watched.”
Something inside Elarian twisted. She had wanted him to watch—wanted him to see her unveil every cruelty she locked away, every action the moon elves taught her was necessary but still shamefully wrong.
Lucan smiled—not the polished smile he wore before the court, nor the cruel one reserved for frightened prey. This one burned her alive until she only wished to melt completely under his touch.
“So,” he said quietly, finally tearing his gaze from her, “shall we lie to an entire kingdom?”
Lucan’s eyes flitted down to Drevain. He removed the dagger with ease. The wound bled freely over his hand; Elarian gulped as a nameless instinct urged her to lick his fingers.
“Well, are you going to help?”
Together, they lifted Lady Drevain’s body from the chair. She was surprisingly light. Lucan carried most of her weight while Elarian steadied the limp limbs. The countess’s head lolled against Lucan’s shoulder, auburn curls trailing over his sleeve like liquid sunlight over autumn leaves.
