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She had seen golden rings encrusted with jewels on his hand once before, decades ago when they were still new to this dance of pain they now executed with near perfection. He was wilder that day than ever before, tunic soaked with black blood—his or another vampire’s, she had never known—before her blade ever touched him.
That was the first time he promised to make her scream his name.
Elarian shifted until her back pressed against the wall, then closed her eyes and tried to think of anything else but his disgusting words that somehow still made her shiver with fascination.
The faintest rustle of cloth over stone stirred Elarian from her rest. Eyes perking up, she craned her neck to get a better view of the corridor.
Something moved below.
White. Not marble.
Hair.
Her body reacted before thought came. Every muscle drew taut as her hand found silver. There, walking alone beneath the vaulted arches as though this castle birthed him…
Elarian couldn’t believe her luck.
Standing under the pooling glow of a witchlight, blissfully distracted whilst reading a parchment, stood the Blooded Prince.
Lucan Valmere.
His name had infected her marrow with its rot.
Lucan.
Lucan.
Lucan.
His name circled her like a noose.
Could she be so fortunate as to end this now? She shifted onto her heels, moving imperceptibly slow lest Lucan somehow hear the creak of ancient timber or rustle of stolen linens. Below, the vampire prince lingered beneath the witchlight, brow furrowed over the parchment in his hands.
Perfectly, painfully exposed.
Elarian unsheathed the dagger at her thigh. She crept forward to the edge of the beam. Her weight shifted forward, muscles trembling with delight.
Fifteen paces. No armor. One clean throw.
The silver would bury itself in his chest before he ever realized she was there; then, at last she could rest.
Elarian’s breathing slowed. Her shoulders loosened, eyes narrowing on the breast pocket just above his still heart. Every muscle settled into a familiar stillness.
Her wrist tilted back—
The sharp sound of metal clashing against stone echoed somewhere down the corridor. A shout followed, and then another. Lucan looked up and tucked the note into his pocket.
Heavy footsteps answered the shouting, and soon a patrol rounded the corner, one guard still fumbling to sheathe his sword. They strode toward the prince with square shoulders and proud faces, assured in their safety within the walls of the Blooded Court.
Elarian’s thumb twitched. One throw would still kill Lucan.
But four witnesses?
She would be dead before she could reach the nearest window.
“Godsdamn shivaem,” she muttered under her breath as she sheathed her silver.
The guards bowed as they approached Lucan, then continued on their charted path. The vampire prince answered with only a slight nod, a look of disgust spreading across his face as they passed. As Elarian peered at him, she noted with warm satisfaction the new scar adorning his upper lip. He looks much more beautiful like that, she thought.
