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Bliss danced upon the periphery of his thoughts, the promise of relief from this incessant need urging him on.
Drink her foul blood and lose myself once and for all!
Lucan groaned, body shaking. He pulled back his foreskin one last time, finger catching on the first gold bar pierced through his shaft. Pain diluted his pleasure as it wrenched down; undone, he came at last, hot seed spurting forth and painting the black marble beneath Elarian’s ghost.
The relief he so desperately sought did not follow.
Body shaking, Lucan collapsed to the floor. His mind quieted, but he still tasted the elf’s scent in the air—just the softest hint of dew-covered grass—and felt her soft hands at his throat.
He wished to flay the skin from his body, to carve out the piece of Elarian that burrowed into his marrow, slithered through his veins, infected his heart that he thought dead long ago.
Elarian.
Elarian.
Godsdamn Elarian.
Even the sound of her name made his blood rise, fury clouding his vision while desire to use her as his perfect plaything strained within his heart. That was all—nothing more. Rolling onto his back, Lucan stared at the ceiling as his erection slowly faded.
A prisoner murdered.
Because he saw Elarian.
The court aflame with rumors of his crumbling control.
Because he wished to hurt Elarian.
His bedchamber floors covered in his seed.
She remained like a maggot that had burrowed into his rotted flesh long ago. Even if he took her, bound her until every craven fantasy that had crossed his mind had been purged from his disgraced soul, she would remain.
Perhaps he didn’t wish to kill her.
Lucan had forgotten what it meant to even have a choice long ago.
twelve
Godsdamned
Wrought of iron and stone, the castle never truly slept even as Elarian fought to keep her eyes open.
Hours after she had slipped inside the Blooded Court—after burying her silver in an all-too-easy kill, disposing of the bloody shivaem in the very sewers she crawled from, and dressing herself in the clothes of the dead—Elarian had begun to fade.
Somewhere overhead, servants hurried along polished corridors. Their bandied words and muffled footfalls burrowed under her skin. Doors opened and closed in distant wings. Laughter drifted through cracks in the ancient walls. So many vampires moving as if they were merely members of a civilized society.
Elarian listened from within the narrow cavity hidden behind a crumbling wall, disgust rising until her head ached.
The space she had claimed could scarcely be called a room. Centuries ago, it might have been a maintenance passage built for masons repairing cracked stone or servants tending the castle’s countless chimneys. Dust lay undisturbed upon the floor except where she had crawled inside. Thick cobwebs veiled the corners. The stale air smelled of old mortar, mildew, and mice.
Perfect.
No vampire would willingly crawl somewhere so beneath them.
She lowered herself onto the cold, stone floor and finally allowed her body to rest. Every muscle screamed the moment she stopped moving.
Weeks of walking through the Evermist settled into her bones all at once. Bruises she had ignored while crossing the mists awakened beneath her borrowed clothes. Her shoulders throbbed beneath the weight of her pack. Even her palms ached from gripping silver for far too long.
Slowly, she tucked the long, silver dagger back in its sheath alongside her thigh. Then, she lifted her hand to her waist and removed the throwing knives with practiced care. One, then another, until all four lay by her side—she had lost two in the Evermist. She arranged the blades until they lay in a stack within arm’s reach before leaning back against the wall.
