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The thought should have filled him with triumph. Instead, terror hollowed him.
His gaze drifted toward the dark stain still drying across the marble floor where he had discarded the blood-soaked bandages. He still smelled her blood lingering in the room, sweeter now that he knew why it had never burned him. Moon elf blood should have blistered his throat, reduced him to writhing agony.
Hers had tasted like coming home.
He hated himself for the thought.
Slowly, Lucan lowered his forehead until it rested lightly against hers.
“Rest,” he whispered.
Outside, rain began to patter softly against the towering windows. Somewhere beyond the palace walls, thunder rolled over the Evermist—low and distant, as though the world itself sighed.
Elarian shifted.
For one heart-stopping moment, Lucan feared she had awakened. Instead, she merely sighed in her sleep and moved closer, her face finding the hollow beneath his jaw with unconscious certainty. One slender hand slid over his heart.
His heart.
The irony almost made him laugh.
It had stopped beating centuries ago, yet somehow, it still belonged to her.
Lucan remained perfectly still. He had held countless bodies before. Lovers who sought warmth, and courtiers seeking favor. Victims too weak to stand. Thralls drunk from bloodwine, melting in his embrace as he drained their blood.
But he had never held someone like this. Never someone who trusted him enough to surrender to sleep.
The realization struck with almost physical force.
She had not curled against the Blooded Prince nor the monster whispered about in frightened prayers. Tonight, Elarian had fallen asleep in the arms of the man who carried her from a ruined chapel beneath the withering gaze of his court, not caring that tomorrow, he would find their fangs at his throat.
Gods help him.
Lucan knew he would not survive losing her now.
And still, he was certain he wouldn’t change a single thing about how they had arrived at this strangely peaceful moment.
“My wild wolf,” he whispered against her hair. “Sleep, Elarian. I will carry tomorrow for both of us.”
forty-five
Eternally Damned
Lucan assumed Vaelor Thane would not run.
He had expected the older vampire to stay in his court instead of fleeing across the kingdom and vanishing into the endless dark beyond Lucan’s reach, carrying his secrets and his wounds with him until the Bloodlord himself arrived. Vaelor had always possessed the particular brand of confidence found only in creatures who did not mistake endurance for immortality. He had survived wars, assassinations, and the rise and fall of countless nobles beneath Aurelion’s throne. Vaelor claimed survival itself was proof of superiority.
Lucan knew better.
Sometimes, it was merely proof that the world had not yet decided how to kill you.
The corridor beyond Vaelor’s apartments remained silent. Lucan approached, every shadow bending instinctively toward him like a loyal hound. Rising even before the servants swarmed the palace, he had forced himself to leave his chambers smelling of sweet blood in exchange for finding the vampire loyal only to Aurelion. Behind him, Elarian moved with the same quiet precision she had possessed when she first entered his court—a phantom draped in black silk and silver hair, a weapon carved from centuries of pain.
Except now, she was not a weapon.
At least, not only a weapon.
The thought still felt dangerous—more dangerous than any blade she had ever wielded against him. Groaning, Lucan forced his attention away from the woman at his back. There would be time for impossible things later.
