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His smile is pure, restored menace. ‘Then wear something that makes them hate you back.’

And because the universe is cruel, because my blood may have just saved him or doomed us both, because the witch upstairs may be the only person who can explain why he doesn’t remember enough to destroy me, and because Senator Kessler has apparently chosen tonight to step into the worst possible spotlight, I look at the naked vampire king in front of me and realise the morning hasn’t just gone downhill.

It has merely been gathering speed for a mammoth clusterfuck.

5

VALENTIN

Two hours after sundown, I remain in the Lower Vaults, having chosen not to return to my chambers.

Everything I need has been brought down at my command.

The obsidian chamber has been emptied, the sigils dimmed to a low crimson pulse. Beyond the sealed doors, my Tower waits for me to resume command.

Above me, my bedroom remains dark, ruined by fractured glass and whatever happened when Eira Cross’s blood tore through me like revelation sharpened into a weapon.

I’m not ready to face the Heartshard Glass.

That admission would amuse my enemies enough to earn their deaths.

As I fasten my cufflinks, my hands do not shake. I feel whole. Better than whole. The mark at my throat no longer crawls like a starving thing beneath my skin. It burns in clean, contained lines, red as a threat drawn by a steady hand.

But my relief is hollow.

Netheris fires, I feel sharpened past sanity. Every sense has been stripped raw and rebuilt brighter. I can hear blood moving inside the guards beyond the doors, separate Aaron’s quiet tread from Malachi’s restrained fury seven corridors away. I can scent stone, old iron, wine, ash, Eira’s skin lingering in the room like a crime I wish to commit again before I have even finished calculating the first.

Something is wrong with this much strength. With power that moves through me in violent, flawless surges.

Too much of it.

The sensation is like standing on the lip of a gorge in a storm, every muscle poised to leap, every instinct insisting flight and fall are the same thing if one is strong enough to survive the impact. Beneath the exhilaration, a warning pulses.

Because highs end just like fires burn through their fuel.

This could be the wild ascent before the catastrophic plunge. The curse laughing before it takes the next payment.

I know this. I am not a fool.

Rowan is upstairs.

She’s dangerous and gifted enough to read old curse-work through bone, blood and breath. I could summon her now. Order her into this chamber, give her Eira’s blood, mine and the residue of whatever spell has made a ruin of my memory.

I could have answers in a matter of hours, possibly less.

Instead, I wait.

For her.

My jaw tightens as I slide a ring onto my little finger.

Eira carries a secret around like a blade hidden beneath her ribs, and every time I reach for it, some part of her goes cold and distant. The clever mouth remains. The defiance. The glittering, reckless courage. But behind it, a door shuts.

I could break that door down. I have broken kings, covens, dynasties and bloodlines for less.

So why do I want her to open it of her free will?

The question irritates me enough to make the ring bite into my skin.