Page 110

Lucan blinked, forcing his gaze back to the throne room. A petty lord—he couldn’t remember his name—stood before him, rocking back and forth with nervous energy. His gaze lingered on Elarian resting in Lucan’s lap. A sultry smile parted her lips, painted the color of fresh plums, while her fingers slowly traced the length of Lucan’s arm wrapped tightly around her waist. Shocked whispers drifted through the throne room as he slid his free hand between her thighs, unable to resist her warmth.

Oh, how quickly his decorum fled in her presence.

Now that he possessed his weapon, the court would soon remember its place beneath his feet.

“Do continue,” Lucan drawled as he shifted in his throne.

He listened to little besides the steady thrumming of Elarian’s heart. So achingly beautiful, just like her. Gods, he wanted to live inside her veins, to feel that frantic rhythm beneath his fingertips as her blood rushed around him until he drowned in her warmth. He licked his lips, wondering how fast it would race when she took the petty lord’s life, straddling him with that wild look in her eyes—the last thing her prey ever saw.

It would be fucking perfect to witness.

Lucan shifted Elarian on his lap until her teasing warmth settled over his cock straining against his fitted pants. She rocked against him only twice before stilling again, each slow glide sending tingles racing down his spine.

“You don’t have to beg for more, my deadly plaything,” he crooned in her ear.

Every muscle in her body tensed at his words. Lucan chuckled, then turned his attention back to the lord still yammering away.

“I believe you can discuss this with Lady Drevain tomorrow.”

The lord paused mid-sentence, bowing deeply before scurrying away. Focusing on anything besides the heat rolling from Elarian's skin—and the anticipation of her kill that evening—proved nearly impossible. Sliding Elarian from his lap, Lucan stood before wrapping her hand in his.

“Come,” he whispered against the shell of her ear. “It is time to unleash my deadly plaything.”

Her heart instantly fluttered at his words, racing until he thought she might pass out in his arms. That sultry smile melted into a wicked, feral thing.

“Lord Kyare retires shortly after moonrise.” Lucan smoothed an invisible wrinkle from the cuff at his wrist. “He dismisses his attendants early whenever Lady Drevain is expected.”

Lucan smiled wide, fangs flashing in the amber light.

“Instead, he shall receive you.”

Elarian changed in a single breath. The lazy warmth that had clung to her in court disappeared as though it had never existed. Her shoulders settled. Her breathing slowed. Every unnecessary movement vanished until she seemed carved from moonlight instead of flesh. Though she said nothing in reply, Lucan knew she, too, had been anticipating this evening.

A good assassin never turned down a kill.

The corridors of the Blooded Palace seemed quieter after court adjourned. Servants melted against the walls as Lucan passed, heads bowed until he and Elarian disappeared around the next corner. She matched his pace without prompting, one step behind, her silence somehow heavier than the iron that collared her every evening. Lords and ladies retired to their chambers or the many private parlors scattered throughout. Soft moans and other sounds of lovemaking—or feeding, one could never be certain—filled the empty corridors.

“No theatrics,” Lucan murmured without looking at her. “Lord Kyare is only a pawn.”

“I thought vampires enjoyed theatrics.”

His mouth twitched. “Indeed, but I prefer surviving above all else.”

She offered no reply, much to Lucan’s surprise.

Ordinarily she would have answered with some biting remark meant to remind him precisely how much she despised him. Tonight she walked with the stillness of fresh snowfall. Even the swaying skirts of her silk gown seemed to whisper less. Now that her blade was not turned toward him, he couldn’t help but admire the perfection of her training. Even imprisoned and forced to kill for the very one she longed to see dead, every ounce of her attention had narrowed upon the coming kill.

She was no longer a frightened prisoner pretending at obedience. She had become a hunter scenting blood.

Fucking beautiful.

Gods, she was so utterly beautiful.

The carved mahogany doors leading to Lord Kyare’s apartments loomed large at the end of the corridor. Warm light spilled from the witchlights overhead. Behind Lucan, the low murmur of laughter faded as a couple disappeared around the corner. Just ahead, the mousy-haired vampire who had once dared to call the prince baselessly cruel waited, oblivious to the Ashen Blade about to pierce his heart.

Lucan stopped, then turned back to Elarian. She practically vibrated with energy. Her fingers flexed unconsciously as she rose onto the balls of her feet, her gaze drinking in every detail of their surroundings. He let himself watch her for a moment before slipping a hand below his waistband.

“If you really think I will suck—”