Page 69

Valentin

Eira sleeps in my arms with her hand over my mark.

And sweet demons I enjoy it more than I care to decipher.

When her breathing steadies and her body softens against mine, I stare down at my hunter. At the bite at her throat, now two faint marks I want to lick open again, because I am apparently losing my mind with admirable consistency.

Sleep non-existent, I monitor the Tower instead.

Report. What did Eira do today?

Malachi answers immediately, and nothing he divulges raises red flags.

And yet, the longer I avoid tearing her secrets from her, the more dangerous it becomes.

What if Morrighan is right? What if the next fall is permanent?

The thought arrives with a dark tug beneath my ribs. Cold and familiar.

No.

My hand tightens around Eira. Nothing will keep me from coming back. She and I still have a mate to find.

The thought should sharpen me. Instead, it hollows something out. Because I have scarcely thought of Lyra Hannigan in days.

Only Eira.

My little hunter’s mouth… her blood. Her beautiful defiance and her fear when my darkness gets too close. My chest moves in a jagged exhale.

Right now, my distraction is asleep against me like she trusts the monster enough to close her eyes but the pull strengthens.

The room tilts but I fight it, silent and vicious, even as the mark begins to burn.

Then a woman’s voice cuts through the dark before Netheris can open beneath me.

‘Awake, Vampire King.’

I surge upright – thankfully still fast, though not nearly as fast as I want to be – and spin towards the threat with a snarl already forming.

She is standing in the room like she owns it.

‘Rowan.’ Her name is a rumble I had not spoken in decades until recently.

Young, pale and timeless, wrapped in dark wool, ebony-black hair braided with something that looks like dried flowers and bone, startling blue eyes bright as a blade edge.

She takes in Eira first, slow, assessing, and I have to clench my fists to stop from stepping in front of my hunter.

Then her gaze slides to me and stops.

On my chest.

On the mark.

Her expression shifts by fractions, a hint of surprise, then recognition. Like she’s just spotted a familiar wound.

And then, as if that isn’t enough, her eyes track lower, as though she can see the invisible things too: the wrongness under my skin, the sluggish drag in my blood, the way the curse and whatever else is gnawing at me frays my edges.

Her mouth twists. ‘Mmm,’ she says, unimpressed. ‘You’ve looked better, vampire.’