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The question gnawed with maddening persistence.
Lucan knew better than to think himself irresistible. Gods knew enough courtesans and titled lords and ladies desperate for a footing in the Blooded Court had warmed his bed long enough to differentiate between lust and complete surrender. Assured in his knowledge that none would ever see him as desirable, Lucan cared little what others wanted from him. He had already lost the only thing worth living for.
And still…
Naked and hiding behind a mask of gold, Elarian’s gaze held some other desire last night. She saw him, and the thought of what she decided drove him to madness. He only knew that, in that moment, she did not see him as prey, prince, nor even monster.
Something foul and black twisted in his chest at the memory. That familiar ache inside returned—a glass pane shattering, eviscerating flesh until he curled inward, gasping for air like a newborn babe.
Lucan rose abruptly from his chair even as the ache stole his breath. Wood scraped across stone, a hideous sound like the squeal of a dying pig.
Beside him, the elf stirred from her slumber. Chains softly rattled as she shifted, eyes struggling to open as a soft moan escaped her bruised throat. Sweat glistened across her moon-pale skin. Even in the dimming starlight, he could see why they called themselves moon elves. Colors shifting as she moved, her silvery-black hair looked as if strands of spun moonlight. Damp with sweat and spilled bloodwine, the short strands clung to her long, pointed ears. Glistening beneath the silver in the amber glow of the witchlights, her ruby-beset, golden earrings looked as if bloody stars hidden in the Evermist.
One wrist tugged weakly against an iron cuff before falling still again.
Shadows drifted toward her without command. A long tendril snaked around her ankle, slowly winding over her calf, almost reverent in its gentleness.
“Enough,” Lucan snarled beneath his breath.
The darkness recoiled instantly.
Another torrent of whys flooded his mind, but one fought to surface above the rest. Why is she taking so long to wake?
Lucan grimaced but still found himself walking toward her crumpled form. The bloodwine should have long since settled, her body unable to use the tainted, silvered blood that he reserved for his private collection. Tired, perhaps, but not enough to steal her away from their first game so soon.
Crouching beside the elf, he studied her trembling eyelids. Red veins spread around each eye socket like some gruesome lightning strike. Droplets of sweat collected upon her brow. One slowly rolled down the far side of her face toward the bruises peeking out from beneath the iron collar at her throat. Even from there, he could feel the heat radiating off her body. Though he had long ago forgotten the comfort of internal warmth, he knew this was far too warm to be natural.
She wasn’t dying…wasn’t poisoned…wasn’t maimed.
Who was she, truly? Everything screamed at him that her silvered blood held more secrets than even she understood.
He frowned, then stood and backed away.
History had taught Lucan that something about the elf unmoored him. Taunting her came as easily as breathing, but all too often, truths slipped through the cracks—never enough for her to know the truth of it all, of course, but one day…one day she might remember. Might look at him in a certain light and see that ghostly creature she once called out to each night, offering the warmth of the fey wolves she called her own.
That Lucan had crumbled to ashen remains long ago.
Somewhere between her discarded silver and the blood still drying upon his sheets, a simple assassination had become something infinitely more dangerous. He no longer knew whether he wanted to break her or understand her. Donning the mask of cruelty Aurelion had taught him, Lucan observed the elf chained to his wall. Elarian lifted her chest from the floor.
“Awake at last.” And thank Gairan for it.
Elarian’s head turned, eyes finding his as if she had already memorized how they watched her every move.
Their exchange dissolved into the familiar rhythm they had perfected over the decades. Insults. Threats. Lies wrapped in half-truths. She spat in his face exactly where he expected; he returned the favor with cruelty borne from habit.
Yet behind every word, Lucan watched—how she hesitated before speaking, those stolen glances at the moon, and every flicker of life in those defiant eyes.
Searching like a godsdamned fool brimming with hope for the answer to one question she refused to give him.
Why did you stay your blade?
The longer they spoke, the more certain Lucan grew that the elf in chains killed Anileta. Amusement rose quickly at the thought. Had she taken her time with it? Did Anileta try to bribe her, flaunt her wealth, perhaps, or act as the hapless victim of circumstance?
His mirth withered almost immediately.
Aurelion.
The countess had informed him earlier that week of her summons to the Bloodlord’s court. Her death would certainly reach Aurelion’s ears unless Lucan acted quickly. Lucan’s jaw tightened as he spun away from the source of everything he despised and desired in life. He did not trust her to be alone for even one second in those chains, nor could he afford to withdraw from the court and draw suspicion from his council.
