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He reached for it, hesitating before sliding his hand under the smooth fabric. Three nights ago, he had commissioned a simple replacement for the thick iron—something fit for court rather than a dungeon—yet the goldsmith, eager to please his prince, had presented him with something far more intimate.

Wrought from delicate links of polished gold that curved like woven sunlight, the thin chain held a whisper of warmth against his cool skin. Attached at one end was a small bracelet and a large collar on the other end. Polished moonstones, each no larger than a fingernail, had been set at measured intervals around its circumference. Under the amber glow, they shimmered pale blue, almost silver, recalling moonlight scattered over still water. He had not realized what he had asked the goldsmith to use until the fool had placed the finished collar into his hands the night prior.

Lucan thumbed the cool gemstones before turning back to the elf.

“Elarian.”

She did not move. Leaning heavily against the wall, her fingers still pressed to the shallow wound beneath her jaw, she regarded him through half-lidded eyes. The fever still burned beneath her skin; he could smell it now that the bloodwine had dulled its edge.

“You’ve found another chain?” she asked hoarsely.

“A prettier one.”

She laughed, a brittle and exhausted sound. “I did not know vanity outweighed cruelty.”

Lucan stepped closer, weighing the collar and bracelet in both hands as if determining their worth. Lifting his gaze to Elarian, that familiar ache returned beneath his ribs.

“Tell me, Elarian,” he said, crossing the distance between them. “Does your blood always sing when anyone forces you to kneel, or simply me?”

Her fingers trembled ever so slightly at his words.

“And do you make a habit out of hiding assassins from your court?”

Gulping, Elarian lowered her hand and let it hang at her side. Blood now deep red with an iridescent sheen dripped from her fingertips, landing just beyond the edge of the pale silks gathered at her feet. Lucan resisted every urge to rush forward and sink his fangs into her bloodied flesh. The cut he’d carved into the side of her neck turned black with clotted blood. It had been little more than a warning, yet she acted as if he had granted her a reprieve from torment.

The thought unsettled him.

“Only so long as they cooperate.” Lucan set the bracelet and attached chain on the bed next to them, then unclasped the thin, gold collar. “Turn.”

To his surprise, she complied without so much as a huff. Raising both hands, she lifted her silvery strands still damp with sweat from her delicate neck. Up close, he saw countless stories etched into her moon-pale skin. Beneath the bruises still blossoming from his cruel touch, he saw the fine lines of hundreds of old scars, thin and long, carved with precise care. Lucan paused. A part of him wished to turn her back around and demand an explanation.

No. She had to remain nothing more than his weapon and a warm body to ease the insatiable thirst.

Nothing more.

Moving quickly before Elarian turned back, Lucan’s fingers skimmed the nape of her neck. Gooseflesh prickled under his fingertips, her fiery skin like touching a sun-warmed stone. Delicately, he slipped the collar around her neck, then turned her back to him. Mercifully, those pale amaranth eyes he ached to see filled with pain and bliss remained closed. The gold kissed her throat, moonstones shimmering as he drew the band closed. It rested lightly against her skin; a delicate ornament fit for only the most beautiful of creatures. He adjusted it with a light touch until the central stone, a moonstone with a streak of red, lay perfectly against the hollow of her throat.

Lucan’s fingertips lingered on the collar.

Elarian’s eyes flashed open; wild mirth filled her gaze. “At least it fits better.”

Gods, what was it about the elf? She was a puzzle Lucan needed to understand, even if it killed them both.

Lucan stepped away before he did something dangerously stupid again. Brimming with emotions he would rather not explore, he turned his attention to the bed lined with black silks. The fine gold chain from Elarian’s collar connected with a simple gold bracelet. Picking it up, he quickly latched it around his right wrist, concealing it beneath the long sleeve of his cream tunic. Though such proclamations of ownership were common between courtesan and their respective lord or lady, something about the act with Elarian made his skin crawl.

Somehow, in less than one full rotation around the sun he forever longed for, Elarian had burrowed into the very marrow of his bones.

Every thought returned to her.

Every silent moment invited her voice to rise like a ghost.

She was a writhing maggot, hungry for everything he could give, and he gladly let her feed. Whether that was because he needed her to survive or simply wished to drown in her chaos, he was uncertain.

Silence settled once more.

Somewhere beyond the chamber walls, distant bells announced the coming of evening. Soon, the Blooded Court would gather beneath vaulted ceilings to barter favors, whisper treasons, and pretend their empire did not rot from within. Lucan rolled the bracelet once around his wrist, feeling the faint, answering movement as the chain shifted between them.

“Come,” he said sharply. His voice had regained its familiar edge. “It is time the court meets their prince’s newest indulgence.”