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Luca grins. ‘Murder monarch.’

Malachi ignores him again with admirable dedication as Aaron’s expression remains grave. ‘O’Rourke keeps a witch.’

‘Keeps?’ I echo. ‘That’s a word choice.’

‘A young witch in his debt,’ Aaron corrects. ‘Powerful. Last heard to be resident in Eastern Europe, though resident is a generous term for someone who hides as well as she does.’

Something ugly twists in my stomach.

Another witch. I don’t know her name yet, but I feel the shape and threat of her in the air. Powerful enough that even the Twelve mention her carefully. Another set of hands reaching towards my blood, my name, Valentin’s mark.

‘You can’t call him without the sire’s permission,’ Aaron says to Malachi.

Malachi hesitates for a fraction of a second, but in that fraction I see the problem.

Calling O’Rourke means admitting weakness. Possibly alerting one of the Brothers of the Five Blood Thrones that Valentin is down and spreading news through the brotherhood faster than blood in water.

Luca’s usual humour is gone. ‘You are the oldest. Call him. He might respect that before he laughs in your face.’

‘Ciaran respects very little,’ Aaron says.

I fold my arms, suddenly cold. ‘Question. If Valentin dies, what happens to all of you?’

The silence is heavy and hostile. Aaron’s face tightens. Luca looks away as Malachi’s eyes burn into mine. ‘He will not die.’

‘That wasn’t the question.’

‘It’s the only answer.’

I glance at Valentin, at the mark crawling up his throat with every passing second, at the barrier that lets me closer than the men who share his blood. ‘Right. Very reassuring. Love the optimism.’

Aaron exhales. ‘If he dies, his bloodline suffers.’

‘Suffers how? I mean, I know the general sire-vampire death thing, but I’m learning new things every day. So…? How much suffering is… suffering?’

No one answers.

I laugh softly, without humour. ‘You know, for immortal predators with world-ending secrets, you’re all terrible at making people feel calm.’

Malachi steps closer, his voice dropping. ‘If he dies, the youngest and weakest of his line burn first. The rest follow at varying speeds. The Twelve would endure longest. But eventually, we all die. And yes, it will not be… benign.’

My breath leaves me at the confirmation. And call me a monster but there’s relief lurking in there somewhere. ‘So this isn’t only about him. You all have skin in the game.’

The full weight of that settles over the chamber.

Valentin’s life and his whole bloodline are tethered to the mark spreading across his chest.

And me at the centre of it, still swallowing the truth.

The cut beneath my tongue throbs once. I press my lips together.

Do not look guilty. Do not look like a woman holding a match in a room full of gasoline.

Malachi watches me too closely. ‘Something about this amuses you?’ he asks.

I blink. ‘What?’

‘You smiled.’