Page 7 of The Dark Lord’s Guide to Honeymooning (and Other Acts of Tyranny)

“Property?” Arabella frowned.

He nodded. “That was the exact wording in the decree—‘All persons of heroic descent are hereby designated property of the crown and must submit to royal authority for the greater good of Solandris.’ ”

I leaned back, swirling my wine. “Do you know why?”

“No, but I wasn’t eager to stick around and find out.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I only got wind of it hours before they came for me, and fled here. Though I didn’t expect you to be so close.”

“Straight to the Dark Lord of the Western Realms?” I asked, unable to keep the surprise from my voice.

“Everyone knows what happened to the Hero’s Guild when they attacked Skyspire. Ironically, it seemed like the safest place to be.”

I stared at him. In all my years as a warlord, no one had ever sought me out for protection without offering something substantial in return—usually their soul, metaphorically speaking. Certainly not a man with heroic lineage, the very sort of person who should have been organizing resistance against me.

“We’ll give you sanctuary,” Arabella declared before I could respond.

I shot her a look, which she pointedly ignored. The thought of this noble, scone-baking paragon of virtue hanging around my fortress made me grind my teeth.

“Thank you.” Relief flooded Sebastian’s voice. “I had hoped, but I wasn’t certain.” He cleared his throat. “Your hospitality is most appreciated, Lady Blackrose.”

“Arabella, please.” Her smile was warm and genuine. “We’ve known each other too long for formalities.”

Something in my chest tightened at the easy familiarity between them. The way she softened when she looked at him. The shared history I wasn’t part of. I knew it was irrational. Arabella was mine, bound to me by magic and choice and a frankly obscene number of orgasms. But rationality had never been my strong suit when it came to her.

“We’re preparing for war,” I pointed out, my voice dangerously mild. “We don’t have time to babysit Solandris’s favorite pastry chef.”

Arabella gave me a warning look. I ignored it just as she had ignored mine.

Sebastian pretended not to notice our silent battle of wills. “I understand your reluctance, Lord Blackrose. But I assure you I won’t be in the way. And I may have information that could be useful.”

I folded my arms. “Such as?”

“Auremar has been… changing.” He fixed his violet eyes on me, then Arabella. “The court whispers that he spends hours locked in the ancient chambers beneath the palace, consulting with practitioners of forbidden arts.”

That caught my attention, but I kept my expression neutral. Sebastian didn’t need to know we already suspected something along those lines. “What kind of forbidden arts?”

“Blood magic, primarily.”

Arabella and I exchanged glances.

“And you believe this is connected to his sudden interest in collecting people with heroic bloodlines?” I asked.

Sebastian nodded. “It must be.”

Cold, quiet rage settled over me. It all pointed to the same madness Atticus Evenfall had spoken of—a dark power behind the king’s throne. If Auremar wanted heroic blood for something big, it threatened more than just Sebastian’s life.

It threatened Arabella.

My chair creaked under my grip as I imagined the king’s hands on her. Then his perfectly coiffed head on a spike. His palace reduced to rubble. His bloodline ended with prejudice and fire.

I’d accidentally thwarted his plans once. The second time would be intentional, thorough, and deeply satisfying.

My gaze flickered to Arabella, who was watching Sebastian with a thoughtful frown. I reminded myself she was no longer a pawn in her father’s games or a prize for a decrepit king. She was the Dark Lady at my side, capable of leveling armies and looking devastatingly beautiful while doing it.

Auremar would never touch her.

If he tried, I’d make what happened to the Hero’s Guild look like a pleasant afternoon tea.

“I came with nothing but the clothes on my back and my horse,” Sebastian continued. “No provisions or wealth. I can offer only my gratitude and whatever services you deem valuable.” He hesitated. “Though I should warn you, my skills run more to diplomatic negotiations and pastry than warfare.”