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I can’t…oh, gods! Am I really a half-blood?
Elarian swallowed the mouthful with considerable effort before setting the bowl aside. The peaches sat untouched once more, glistening beneath the morning light as though daring her to take another bite. Despite herself, she glanced back at Lucan.
The corners of his mouth tightened into something akin to pity, flickering over his face before he buried the expression beneath practiced indifference. Strange. She had imagined the Blooded Prince incapable of pity. Rage, certainly. Cruel amusement came as naturally to him as breathing. But pity belonged to gentler souls.
“It is enough. You’ll survive until supper,” he said at last.
“I was under the impression that was your intention this entire week. Light starvation and midnight visits aside.”
Lucan’s eyes softened. “It is.”
Lucan reached for the collar at her neck, brushing his thumb over the largest moonstone nestled against her throat. The gesture had become almost ceremonial these past few days, more habit than necessity. His touch lingered against her skin before he pulled away.
“I have business to attend before this evening.”
This evening.
She sensed the next words about to spill from his lips.
“A petty lord dies, and they’ll call it a lovers’ squabble. But a countess dies…”
“Drevain,” Elarian breathed out slowly.
“Drevain.”
The single word settled heavily between them.
Elarian felt the familiar tightening beneath her ribs: the tension building in her muscles, the emptiness of her palms, and Lucan’s breath against her neck as he whispered his commands.
She despised herself for killing so readily for Lucan.
And she despised Melistra for making her crave a better reward than shame.
Lucan studied Elarian for another heartbeat, crimson eyes lingering upon her face as though searching for something. When he at last satisfied himself, he strode over to the doors separating the bedroom from the parlor just beyond.
“Do try not to murder your guest, Elarian.”
She scoffed at his words. “I will make no such promise.”
“I know.”
The faintest ghost of a smile touched his lips.
Gods. She already knew that smile.
“But I do rather enjoy Lord Ataen’s company, and I sense you do as well,” he continued as he threw the doors open. “Besides, there is no silver here. And my dear Jace has killed almost as many of your elves as you have my courtiers.”
Lord Jace Ataen entered as if waiting for his cue, shadows billowing behind him until Elarian could scarcely see the broad doors leading to the castle beyond. He threw his arms open wide, a lopsided grin on his broad, scarred face.
“Well now, Elarian, I have simply been dying to meet you without all the secrecy. Or is it still Eliyn?”
Lucan chuckled as he closed the doors behind Lord Ataen.
“Oh, she is very much Elarian. Aren’t you?” He turned to Ataen, wrapping his arms around the lord’s massive bicep as he pulled him toward the bed. “You can still smell Kyare on her.”
Lord Ataen breathed in deeply, practically vibrating as the scent of blood, shame, and sex filled his nose. Elarian flinched as he growled—a deep, beastly sound even more fierce than the fey wolves.
“You are simply divine, kitten,” he groaned as he walked up to Elarian and cupped her cheek. “I can almost see why Luc here has dreamed of fucking you raw until you bleed for so long.”
