Page 97

The question struck deeper than she wanted.

Before Elarian could reply, Lucan pulled her close by the chain at her neck. She tensed against him even as her legs trembled.

“Your training made you patient,” he said quietly. “Disciplined. Observant. You learned how to read every weakness in a person before deciding where to place the blade.”

His fingers brushed against her lips. Elarian stilled.

“And those same skills,” Lucan continued, “make you very good at this.”

“This?” she repeated.

His thumb brushed over one of the moonstones.

“Being desirable. Surely you have felt the hunger of every vampire in this castle when they gaze upon you. The Ashen Blade, hidden in plain sight.”

Lucan unlatched the delicate golden collar and let it slip into his hands. His lips curled into a wicked smile.

“It is how you shall kill Lord Kyare soon enough.”

Elarian bristled at his words. “What makes you think I would kill a pawn when the prince is right here?”

Gazing up at him even as her vision swam, she slowly lifted her fingers aching with fever to the mouth of the vampire she had meant to kill for nearly a century. Ice melted her feverish skin as her fingertips brushed against the scar cutting through his upper lip. Lucan’s eyelids trembled.

“My silver still waits under your wardrobe. We both know it is only a matter of time before you pause just a moment too long or turn away in foolish haste.”

“Is that what you tell yourself, Elarian?”

Lucan’s hand resting against her shoulder slid down, brushing over each gentle curve of her muscles with an almost reverent touch. As he reached her bruised flesh exposed at her hip, something akin to satisfaction flickered in his gaze. Sighing breathlessly, his fingers pressed into the bruise blossoming into a beautiful, deep purple against her moon-pale skin.

“You may tell yourself this is still a game,” he continued in a low voice, “but surround yourself with enough simpering fools, and one often learns the difference between flattery and true desire.”

Holding her gaze for one lingering heartbeat, Lucan twisted that knife wedged deep beneath her ribs without ever knowing he had put it there.

Don’t do this, Lucan. Please do not lead us into this ruinous dance.

Mercifully, the vampire prince turned and stepped away. Without the moonstone collar glittering at her throat and his breath against her cheeks, the air around Elarian felt strangely empty.

Lucan crossed to the walnut wardrobe and knelt beside it. From where she stood, Elarian watched him wrap a discarded cloth around his hand before it disappeared beneath the wardrobe’s carved feet. His hand emerged a moment later, gently holding her silver dagger between his thumb and forefinger. Glancing back with wicked delight in his crimson eyes, he tossed it high to the upper levels of his bedchamber. It clattered across the stone floor unseen before coming to a rest in the billowing shadows.

“There.”

Lucan stood and returned once more to Elarian’s side. Gods. Like a newborn lamb without a sense of danger, she had stood still as Lucan turned her back toward him yet again.

“Killing me will now be a more suitable challenge for you, wouldn’t you agree?”

Too exhausted to conjure a daggered reply, Elarian simply sat on the edge of the bed, wincing as the softness embraced her heat-stricken skin. She swore she closed her eyes for only a breath; yet, when they opened again, Lucan straddled her shaking legs with the thick iron collar in hand.

“No,” she whispered, as if a simple plea could command the Blooded Prince.

“You are my prisoner, Elarian. Do not let the gold fool you.”

Elarian’s eyes flitted down as Lucan shifted closer. He twined his fingers through her hair and set one knee upon the mattress. Iron kissed the tender skin beneath her jaw as he settled the collar into place. The lock clicked shut with quiet finality. His fingers lingered, long nails carving into her skin until red welts bloomed.

“You are a wretched creature, Lucan Valmere,” she murmured.

He jerked her chin up; she hissed as the cold iron bit into her tender bruises.

“As are you, Elarian the Ashen.”