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He spoke so abruptly, Elarian didn’t have time to turn toward him before he grabbed her by the waist and dragged her to the edge of the bed. Standing before her, dressed only in his loose crimson pants again, Elarian struggled to feel the same anger she had the day before. The coolness of his flesh against hers had quickly grown into something she craved—only for relief and to limit her consumption of bloodwine.
“You cut yourself in the night. Let it heal.”
Elarian rose faster than she meant, head spinning as the blood rushed to her feet. Gritting her teeth, she raised her wrist in front of Lucan’s face.
“I did not.”
Lucan smirked. “And how would you know?”
Godsdamn him!
But she needed to know what he did to her. Did he…Goddess save her, did he feed from her? Cut her? Did he delight in simply watching her bleed even after he made her confess to wanting more than life could ever give her? Every possible reason sickened her.
“I-I would remember.”
“Hmm.” Lucan grabbed her wrist, gently squeezing against the bandage. A sharp pain rose. “And what else would you remember, Elarian?”
She trembled at his words, unable to find a response.
“Would you remember saying yes?” Lucan’s eyes glittered with wicked delight.
Shame flooded Elarian’s veins. Like the rot that had lodged under her nails and in her lungs when she crawled through the fetid sewers into the Blooded Palace, so too did the wretched taste of her words burrow into her very bones.
“I—yes,” she whispered.
Lucan released her wrist.
“Then do not lie to me. I know you are smarter than that.”
Snatching her hand back to her chest like a wounded animal, Elarian merely stared at Lucan, furious at herself for letting him see so easily beneath her ashen armor.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence stretched between them, heavier than the collar and chain at her throat. Elarian waited—waited for another mocking word, the cruel smile curling the corners of his lips, for that whispered reminder she was no longer the Ashen Blade; no longer the assassin who had hunted him through the last century of his wretched, stolen life.
She waited for him to declare his victory again.
Instead, he turned away, and in his absence, she began to burn again.
Lucan crossed toward the small table beside the window where a tray and glass decanter had been left untouched. Crimson light spilled over the gilded tray and cut crystal. Elarian licked her lips unconsciously as Lucan’s hand lifted the cork from the decanter. More and more, the scent of iron in the air paired with that cloying sweetness of fruit became something she almost craved. Elarian’s stomach twisted at the thought. She hated that her body now recognized the scent before her rational senses could reject its allure. Hated the way fever still crawled beneath her skin, scorching her withered soul until she begged for the very thing that kept pulling her deeper into disgrace.
But it did not matter.
Because when Lucan returned with the goblet in hand, she already itched to take the bloodwine even as she hurled curses at him in her mind.
“Drink.”
His command came so swiftly, Elarian nearly laughed.
“You cannot be serious.”
His pale brow lifted. “Do I appear to be joking?”
“You are keeping me prisoner, chaining me like an animal, and yet you are concerned I might die from a fever?”
A faint smile touched his lips.
“You nearly collapsed yesterday walking from one end of my chambers to the other.”
“I was ill.”
