Page 32
The elf raised her head. Defiant, like a fool. The amber glow from the witchlight overhead deepened the purple bruises over her lower jaw.
Silver flashed, followed by pale crimson eyes.
He closed his eyes. Mist curled around a lithe frame, short hair brushing against his cheeks as her breath warmed his skin.
Elarian.
His control snapped.
Shadows exploded across the room and swallowed the amber light. The table exploded, shards of metal glinting as they flew in front of his vision. Wings fluttered.
The prisoner screamed.
At last, he thought before darkness consumed his mind.
His hand closed around the elf’s throat. Somewhere, he heard someone tell him to calm down. He only dug his nails deeper into her soft flesh. Hot blood squelched over his fingers, silver burning as it coursed down his forearm.
Lucan did not stop.
The elf writhed under his grip, clawing at his wrist to no avail. He felt little beneath his burning rage and the need for Elarian’s defiant, perfect body beneath his. Gurgling, she spat up blood, the hot liquid splashing over his face.
Lucan barely felt it.
All he could see was silver and pale red.
All he could smell was ash and mist.
All he could hear was a woman whispering his name before burying her silver in his broken, twisted heart.
Elarian.
Elarian.
Elarian.
The prisoner’s neck snapped. The sound echoed through the chamber; then came silence. Lucan stood, the corpse limply hanging in his grasp, bloodshot eyes bulging from her contorted face.
But it wasn’t Elarian.
Never Elarian.
Slowly, Lucan released the body. The elf hit the floor with a wet thud.
“Dispose of it.”
His voice sounded distant as he turned and strode from the interrogation chamber. The scars across his shoulder burned as Elarian’s moon-pale face mocked him as he walked.
He had to end this before it destroyed him.
By the time he had returned to his royal apartments, Lucan could barely walk two steps without seeing reminders of the elf. For decades, his obsession hid in the dark: tapestries with her likeness here and there, silver decorations in his rooms that glinted in the depths of night when his thoughts strayed and his cock hardened, preferences for short-haired lovers in his bed…
But the facade had been slipping.
Had already slipped, perhaps.
His courtiers whispered. Anileta conspired. Senna stood by in silence, always supportive yet always watching.
The court would surely enjoy gossiping about Lucan’s actions tonight.
