Page 75

“Come.”

Lucan’s command buried itself in Elarian’s heart. She turned without question.

Pale pink silks lay draped over one outstretched arm. The gown shimmered like falling petals from a cherry tree, its skirts slit nearly to the hip, the bodice cut scandalously low. Golden chains, delicate as spider silk, looped through the neckline.

“I cannot,” she said quietly, holding her hands up as proof. The chains rattled as she moved, a cacophony that made her teeth grind.

Lucan regarded her for a moment before setting the gown across the bed with delicate care. Long strides took him to her before she could recoil. A shadowy hand slipped around her thigh as he loomed tall in front of her.

“No,” he agreed, “you cannot.”

His fingers found the iron cuff at one wrist. It twisted, and something unlatched within. Curious, Elarian thought to herself. No key. Magical bonds or some other mechanical ingenuity from the long-lost humans must have held her tight. Escaping them would prove to be more difficult than she had thought.

The metal cuff fell from her wrist. Before she could so much as flex her aching fingers, his hand closed tight around her forearm until she feared bone would splinter.

“Do not mistake this for trust, darling,” he whispered before inhaling deeply. “I can still smell Anileta’s blood upon your wretched form.”

Elarian froze.

If she twisted now, she might manage to claw at his face and gouge out an eye.

Or if she could break his thumb, she might slip from his grip long enough to reach the silver chain fastening the curtains.

If.

A thousand possibilities lay before her.

But only one guaranteed she drew breath the following morning.

“I can bide my time,” she murmured under her breath.

Lucan did not respond, though she knew it was impossible he had not heard. Returning to the gown, he fussed over some unseen imperfection. Elarian watched him from the corner of her eye as he lifted the pale pink silk from the bed. Soft layers of silk cascaded to the floor, shimmering under the faint glow of witchlights like the first blush of dawn before the sun burned away the night. Golden threads wound through the bodice in intricate spirals. Long fingers traced over the delicate embroidery at the hemline as if inspecting a weapon rather than a garment, though perhaps he saw little distinction between the two. Everything in this accursed castle seemed designed to bind, to break, to turn living things into ornaments for the prince’s ruthless games.

Gods, why did the gown have to be beautiful?

“Arm,” Lucan commanded as he returned to her side.

The word should have ignited her fury like a flaming star; should have made her bare her teeth and spit venom, remind him that no chain forged by vampiric hands could ever make her bow.

Yesterday, she certainly would have.

Today, Elarian merely lifted her unshackled arm. Lucan’s gaze flicked briefly to her face. For a breath, something unreadable crossed his features. Not triumph, or amusement, but something like…surprise?

It vanished before Elarian could breathe in.

The gown slipped over her head, silk whispering against her skin. The scent of him clung faintly to the fabric, buried beneath perfume and rosewater, but she noticed it all the same. Her stomach twisted violently at the reminder of where she was, who had chosen these clothes, and why she stood half-naked in front of the creature she had spent nearly a century hunting.

Lucan’s fingers brushed her ribs as he adjusted the fabric. Both of them stilled. It was such an insignificant touch—barely a breath against her skin—yet her body remembered before her mind could stop it.

The warmth of his hands. Sing for me.

The sharpness of his teeth. Goddess help me, it’s fucking beautiful.

The way she had reached for him instead of the blade at her side. Be my fucking whore.

Shame burned hotter than any wound Melistra had ever given her.

Elarian looked away first.