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Lucan Valmere.

His name shattered the foggy glass around her memories. The previous night returned with staggering clarity—every moment, every intentional choice she made up until she was naked on his bed, gagging as his cock bruised the back of her throat.

No, no, no, no! No, I can’t—I didn’t—I—oh, Melistra strike me dead here! I…I wanted it! Wanted him! This can’t be happening, it isn’t ha—

“Awake at last.”

Lucan’s voice tore through Elarian’s chest, suffocating her with its intensity. As if a marionette controlled by unseen strings, she turned, and her eyes unwillingly found his. None of the softness that resided there the previous night remained. Sharp as glass, she shrank from his inscrutable gaze.

“Yo-you…no.” The hatred that burned within her chest sputtered, then died; a candle snuffed out by the vampire’s defilement.

By her willing defilement.

Elarian didn’t know how she could hate him now. Not when she happily abandoned her goddess for one night of comfort—even if it was all a ruse.

As if sensing her thoughts, Lucan walked closer to the elf slumped against the wall. The chain attached to the collar around her neck rattled as she lifted her chin. Even if she faded from within, she would never give him the satisfaction of bearing witness.

“You put on quite the show last night, Eliyn,” he said, voice strained as the veins in his neck bulged ever so slightly. “I almost believed it at first.”

Elarian remained silent.

Part of her wished to scream, No, you forced yourself upon me like in the chapel! Instead, the words died until her mouth only tasted of ash. Buried so deeply, Elarian had managed to deny it until last night; but now, her desire to be seen as something sensual and worthy of pleasure became impossible to ignore.

That the vampire prince was the source of her revelation made her skin crawl.

While she had been playing a game dressed in finery and a gilded mask, Lucan orchestrated one of his own. Did he always know who she was? Was anything in that ballroom real? Elarian gagged at the blasphemous thought.

Why did it matter?

She was lured in, willingly disarmed, and drugged!

How can I desire it still, even as I wish to drink in the stench of your rotted corpse?

Clothed in only loose, silken sleeping pants dipping low on his hips, Lucan appeared every bit as magnificent as he did last night. The scars from her silver blade over his torso perfectly accentuated his muscles as he moved. Closing her eyes, she recalled how he bled as her silver split his lip not long ago. Dew had misted his brow while his blackened blood shimmered like snow under the full moon.

“Watching you put it together is delightful.”

Lucan strode closer, fangs bared beneath his wicked smile. The seam of gold in his right one gleamed bright—another sign of her failure. Gods, this was all inevitable, wasn’t it? This tumble into her basest desires? Lured in by the false safety that she had played the part of courtesan well enough, then intoxicated by the closeness of that which she could never have.

Was Lucan her enemy because Melistra declared it, or because he represented everything she could not have? Free to do as he pleased, adored rather than feared, and…happy.

Godsdamn this heart of mine! Godsdamn you, Lucan! You had no right to do any of this.

Cold, black fingers looped with shadows brushed against her cheek. For a breath, Elarian held still. Lucan’s smile wavered ever so slightly. She thought he might say something, but he only stared at her as if weighing the worth of her life.

Like waking from a nightmare, Elarian inhaled deeply. The vampire’s bewitching gaze released her. She jerked to the side, eyes wide as her hands trembled.

“Get off me, shivaem,” she hissed, pressing herself against the cold wall. Chains clinked against each other, the sound agonizing as the blood thrumming in her veins set her head ablaze.

“It is far too late for that.” Lucan leaned in, lips brushing against the tip of her long elven ears. “Elarian.”

He whispered her name so delicately, as if she were a tender flower he had long sought. Upon his lips, the sound almost became a prayer. Elarian shuddered, gooseflesh prickling every inch of her skin. Rage knotted her stomach until she could only gasp for air.

“You defiled me,” she whispered, suddenly too weak to pull away. The blood sluggishly flowed through her veins, an exquisite pain like fire melting sinew and marrow, numbing her thoughts. “Sundered me from She Who Is Death.”

But the accusation curdled before it could settle into truth.

For it was her hand that first touched the hilt of her blade. Her fingers that had wrapped around its cool silver drew the blade, then tossed it aside.