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Many things about his cursed life reviled Lucan: the way sleep evaded him; how food now tasted like ash; the constant, aching cold, so utterly consuming that he could no longer remember the sun upon his face.

But feeding helped ease the torment.

Sitting again on the edge of the bed, Lucan dragged the thrall—now limp and moaning in his arms—into his lap, then pulled away from his neck for a breath. A warm, delirious smile spread across the man’s face. Lucan noted how his lips curved like Elarian’s for a breath even as she had struggled in his arms.

Elarian.

This was all her fucking fault—so why was he happy?

Lucan threw the thrall to the bed then climbed on top of him, pressing his weight into his thin body until he was certain bones might snap. His mouth found the other side of the man’s neck, then bit hard.

The flood of warmth came.

Behind it rushed the faint scent of something else.

The Evermist?

No—her.

The hot blood now coursing through his body flared with desire. Unconsciously, Lucan pressed his hips against the thrall’s. His cock throbbed, hardness rubbing over the man’s own stiff below his stained trousers.

He paid no heed to the thrall. Lucan could only think of Elarian’s moans even as she struggled to get away, the scent of her driving him to the brink of insanity. He only meant to rattle her. Pry loose a piece of her impenetrable armor. Toy with her.

But then something in him snapped.

He pushed too far and uncovered a truth neither of them would survive.

They needed each other alive.

Lost in his thoughts, Lucan did not notice the thrall now completely limp under his body, face ashen, eyes bulging. Instead, he continued to drink, letting the warm blood trickle down his throat. His hips rocked against the man’s unbidden; more and more, the elf leaked into his every desire.

It was only when the blood stopped flowing that Lucan finally pulled away.

The thrall hung limp in his arms, head lolling against his shoulder, a thin dribble of blood leaking from his parted lips as milky eyes stared at nothing. Lucan dropped the corpse onto the silk sheets and stared at it for a long while.

“Godsdamnit,” he muttered.

He’d done it again.

But it still wasn’t her.

seventeen

Whispers & Tidings

The countess’s chambers proved easier to find than Elarian anticipated. It quickly became clear that she enjoyed flaunting her position in Lucan’s court.

Silken banners embroidered with emerald ravens flying against a sea of purple marked the corridors leading to her private wing. Censers hung from the rafters on long chains, the smoky aroma of burnt rosemary perfuming the air. Every servant here wore deep crimson skirts and adornments in their hair. They scurried along carrying perfume bottles and heavy gowns, polished jewelry, and bundles of fresh flowers.

The thought of such a creature pretending she was anything like the blessed children of the gods sickened Elarian.

Still, the bustle of activity easily hid her shadow moving quickly along the upper rafters. Opulence was the oldest ally of an assassin.

Her reward now came in the form of an empty service corridor leading deep into the countess’s chambers. Keeping low against the wood paneling, Elarian crept down the corridor toward the faint sounds of chatter. Breath stilling, she listened.

“…that Saramisa is dead, so quit your whining and attend to our lady’s needs.”

“But Avri, she is to leave for his court soon. I would sooner feed from one of the moon elves rotting below than go back there!”