Page 15 of Heart of the Raven Prince

“Gregor was in the Lower East earlier,” he says, his tone entirely unbothered, like we are just exchanging pleasantries. Like this isn’t some obvious trap he’s trying to lead me into. Gritting my teeth, I quicken my strides, and he keeps his annoying pace with me. I move to grab the doorknob to the queen’s private dining room when he snares my wrist viper-quick, freezing me in place. Lochlan is several inches shorter than me and yet has somehow been able to perfect the art of looking down his nose at me as he whispers, “He told me the strangest story of an armored fae on horseback carrying a human with him.”

Gods fucking dammit.

I keep my face a mask—giving him nothing—but he still grins wider like he won this match as he releases my hand and pushes the door open.

“Good evening, mother,” he says, and I draw in a steadying breath. So, she is waiting for us, just like I assumed she would be. My chest aches, but I firmly keep myself from touching it. I will not draw attention to that gnawing pit in her presence. Straightening my jacket, I stand up tall and step into the dining room.

“Welcome home, son,” the lyrical voice of the queen calls to me, sending an icy shiver snaking down my spine. Her voice is like crystal ringing out across a cavernous room. Light, airy, and far too bright in this decaying world. My chest burns as it always does in her presence. A searing reminder of the bond we share—one I do not want. Her gaze is like a brand on my skin. Unable to avoid it for any longer, I finally turn. My obsidian eyes meet the ruby gaze of Arawyn, the Raven Queen.

My captor these last two centuries.

There is a long carved wooden table in the middle of the room, and she sits on a black throne directly in the center. The entire room is decorated in varying shades of gray and deep charcoal, from the twisted iron chandelier bathing the room in a hushed glow, to the polished black marble floor. I want to say I remember when this room was bright and warm, but I have long since stopped allowing myself to recall that part of my life.

To most, it would appear as though the queen is wanting to exude a sense of dark and deathly dominance. But I am not most people; I know better. She has this room decorated the way it is exactly so that she stands out. The star in the center of a bleak and desolate universe.

Because this room may be pitch-black, but the queen is radiant.

Snow-white hair spills in soft waves down her shoulders, held back by the ivory and diamond crown on her head. Her dress is made up of layers of white silk and swan feathers. Glittering gemstones are stitched into the bodice, twinkling like stars in a night sky. Even her fingernails, tapping long and pointed against the table, are painted a blinding white. Framing it all are the bright ivory wings that sprout from her back, nearly dwarfing her small stature as they spill out around her throne.

Her razor-sharp red eyes spear me in place. The only drop of color on her. She holds her hand out toward me, beckoning me forward. One look at her and you see someone soft, warm, almost childlike. Her eyes wide, her full lips painted a pale pink, pulled into an idyllic smile, her posture entirely inviting.

A thing of beauty and an absolute monster.

Still, I return the smile, striding quickly forward and dropping to a knee in front of her before rising and gripping her outstretched hand. I plant a kiss on the bright diamond ring on her finger, the ring my mother used to wear. My real mother. I do not grimace at the thought of what she would think if she could see me now. I know she would look at me and feel only hate.

I go through the motions easily, the well-rehearsed steps of a dance I have been in with the queen for two hundred years. Pulling her hand free, the queen snaps her fingers and a servant rushes forward, positioning a chair directly beside her. She pats the seat as she says in that gently lilting voice, “Come, my son. Sit, and eat. You look starved.”

I give a curt nod before rounding the table and sitting beside her. There are no plates laid out, no cutlery, no polished silver dishes lining the table with an elegant feast. There is only one crystal wineglass placed in front of me after I sit. The queen snaps her fingers again and a door opens. Two humans are led in by a fae guard. Their heads are down, eyes cast to the floor, hands held firmly before them. Each one wears a silver earring with a ruby dangling at the end of a long chain. I note the growing number of puncture wounds on their wrists and forearms, but mostly on their necks. They won’t last much longer now, not before the queen proclaims them well and truly used up. She likes her meat fresh.

My stomach churns, but I keep the grimace off my face as the two humans—a male and a female—make their way to Lochlan and the queen. The female, well acquainted with Lochlan and his preferred method of feeding, curls up on his lap, resting her head on his shoulder, exposing her neck to him. He wraps an arm around her waist, watching Arawyn, who is examining the human male standing before her. Her lips are thinned as she twists his arm back and forth, apparently looking for a spot free of puncture wounds in varying states of healing.

“I hope you brought more humans with you, Caden. These ones are growing tired,” she says, shoving the sleeve of his shirt all the way up, until her blood-red gaze narrows in on a pulsing vein with the least number of injuries around it. Running her nose along the ridge of his arm, she inhales deeply. Her eyes flutter closed as a look of ecstasy crosses her face. “Drink, my sons.”

She and Lochlan waste no time in sinking their teeth into the two human Vessels. I grimace, turning my eyes away when Lochlan begins to pull his Vessel closer—the gesture almost intimate if it weren’t for the crease of pain that lines her eyes. His gaze flicks to me, that fucking smirk tugging at his lips. A dribble of blood seeps out of the side of his mouth and trails down his chin.

I’m momentarily lost in the memory of licking blood off her chin.

Snapping my gaze away from him, I turn in time to see another human walk through the open door. She is holding a crystal decanter filled with a deep red substance that she brings toward me. Dipping her head reverently, she drops into a curtsey before offering me the decanter.

“From Yasminda, Sire,” the human whispers, gently filling my glass with blood. Yasminda is my preferred Vessel, one I house outside of the castle, well away from where Lochlan can get to her. But for some gods-forsaken reason all I can think about is the princess, and the fiery flavor of her blood. There is a wet sound as the queen pulls her mouth from the Vessel’s arm. She darts her scarlet gaze between me and my untouched glass, her eyes narrowing ever-so-slightly.

“Are you not hungry, son?” she asks, but I know it’s less of a question and more an unspoken command to eat.

Or, drink, rather.

Bringing the crystal wineglass to my lips, I tip the contents back. Her blood tastes bright and sweet, like honey and butterscotch, and I can almost smell her perfumed skin on it. I finish the glass in one gulp.

It does nothing to stave off my hunger.

The human beside me moves to fill my glass again, but I gesture for her to leave the decanter. She flashes me a grateful look before dipping once more into a curtsey and scurrying out of the room. Just because I am not feasting on her doesn’t mean the queen and Lochlan will not, so I know she is more than happy to be out of their ravenous presence. The queen has returned to drinking from her Vessel, and I pour a second glass and sip on it. I wish the familiar flavor of Yasminda’s blood could sate even an ounce of the gnawing ache. Lochlan yanks his fangs out of the Vessel’s neck, and she flinches, but does not utter a sound even as his hand grips her ass and squeezes firmly.

“Playing with your food?” I muse, swirling my wine glass and sitting back hard in my chair. My words have their intended effect, as Arawyn darts her harsh red gaze to Lochlan and narrows on him.

“Lochlan,” she chides, her voice airy and light, but the darkness in her eyes does not go unnoticed by Lochlan. He instantly sits up straight, shoving the Vessel off his lap and unceremoniously to the ground. She lands with an oomph but jumps up and rushes out of the room the moment he waves her off. The only Vessel that remains is the one standing beside the queen, his arm still held outstretched before her, twin lines of blood dripping from the fresh wounds. The queen frowns as Lochlan wipes the trail of blood off his face, licking his fingers clean. “Finished already?”

“I filled up on dessert before I arrived. Speaking of playing,” Lochlan says before a mischievous look crosses his face. He leans forward, his arms crossed on the table as he holds me in his gaze. “Where is your new plaything?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I drawl, sipping the blood in my glass and trying forcefully to push her particular flavor from my mind.