Page 107

Addictions

Time never slowed within the slick, black walls of the Blooded Palace.

Days melted together until morning and night lost meaning. There were only Lucan’s chambers, the long corridors of the palace, and the throne room. In private, she found a strange world of peace stitched together with barbed words and drowned in bloodwine. Before the court, where every glance carried the promise of violence, she felt more alive than she had in centuries.

Elarian had always thought herself stronger. Always thought she would never bow, never break, never willingly give anyone even an ounce of control of her life.

Then Lucan took it by force.

And gods…

Gods, she didn’t hate it nearly as much as she should have.

Each morning began the same. Elarian would awaken tangled in the black, silk sheets, the chains at her wrists removed sometime during the night. As the pale light of dawn spilled through the towering windows, a soft red glow surrounded her; for one fleeting, blissful moment, she would forget in whose bed she lay. Then, the weight around her ankle would shift as she stretched beneath the blankets. Metal would scrape against the bed frame as her chains tightened, and reality once more settled over her.

Elarian’s wrist stung.

She frowned, rolling onto her back before lifting her arm into the light. Fresh linens wrapped around her wrist, held in place with a golden pin. She tugged it down, swallowing as she prepared herself for the inevitable. The bandage bristled across her skin before pulling away. A hiss escaped her lips at the sight of another pair of bite marks crossing the inside of her wrist.

The first bite happened sometime when she slept over a fortnight ago. She had woken up that morning with her blood a little cooler, her thoughts easier to grasp through the sluggish jelly of a mind still softened by fever and shameful sin alike. Three of them now covered her wrist. Precise. Intentional. Fresh enough that the skin around it remained pink, though the bleeding had long since stopped.

Staring at her flesh, Elarian thumbed the edge of the bandage, searching for something. An explanation. A memory. Anything.

Yet she never woke during the night.

Every evening she drifted into an uneasy sleep, convinced Lucan would return to haunt her dreams the moment her eyes closed. He never did. In his place was a dreamless, heavy slumber unlike anything she could remember. Some mornings, she awoke with another set of puncture wounds.

Why do I keep waking with new bite marks? Why does he not just feed from me?

The questions perched upon her tongue each morning, yet she could never bring herself to ask. Perhaps it was certainty she would dislike the answer, or because she knew he might simply smile and ask, Whatever are you talking about?

Elarian sighed and sat up, waiting for Lucan to exchange gold for iron. Next would come a silken dress—and his hands at her curves as he smoothed the fabric—before he summoned her breakfast.

This had become their routine.

Without a word, Lucan crossed the room toward her. Gold glimmered beneath the sleeves of his white tunic as he knelt before the bed, one knee settling against the polished floor. Cool fingers circled the iron cuff locked around her ankle.

Click.

The familiar weight vanished.

Elarian remained still as he slid the iron free from her other ankle, then removed the thick, iron collar at her neck. His fingers did not linger a moment too long against her skin, yet still, it was enough to send shivers down her spine. She leaned into his touch when he returned with the thin, golden collar; horror coiled low in her stomach at the realization. It cooled the next breath as the metal settled snugly against her throat. For the first time, she marveled at how perfectly it fit her—as if he had made it only for her. More shivers crawled down her back, coalescing into a growing warmth between her thighs.

Lucan adjusted the collar until the largest moonstone sat against the hollow of her throat. His fingers traced the edge of her jaw, then disappeared so suddenly she almost cried out.

“Stand,” Lucan commanded quietly.

She did without protest. She felt strangely…compliant this morning, as if part of her defiance had bled out in the night.

A gown already waited upon the dressing screen opposite the bed. Ivory this morning, its skirts flowing soft as cream over the polished floor. Gold thread climbed the bodice in delicate branches that glittered whenever they caught the light.

Elarian stepped into the dress without being asked. By the time she had gathered the skirts to her waist, Lucan was already behind her. His fingers brushed the bare skin of her back as he drew the fabric together. Gooseflesh puckered against his touch, sending ripples of stomach-curdling desire through her. Rend my flesh from this wretched body, she wished to say. Elarian only closed her eyes.

One clasp.

Then another.

She found herself shifting her hair over one ear before he reached the final fastening. Lucan’s fingers paused for the barest heartbeat. Once, every touch had felt like an invasion; every brush of his fingertips had sent fury clawing beneath her skin.