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She might have laughed when he proclaimed her as such if not for the scorching fires inside.

Her fever had worsened during the council. She had known it from the moment she entered the chamber, when the first wave of heat rolled beneath her skin and every breath scraped against her lungs like broken glass. No matter what the Knight-Saint or Reshva might have said, she knew her fading starin was not merely exhaustion. It was not a wound that would close or a sacrifice demanded by Melistra for her gifts.

Perhaps it was her body remembering what she was.

Blood had always betrayed her. For centuries, she tried to pretend it was something divine rather than monstrous. Desperately wished to believe the gods-blessed Saint and her faith in She Who Is Death. Yet only one explanation—the very one Lucan used to hide her in front of his councilors—had ever truly made sense. Melistra never blessed her Fallen Star. No…Maybe Lucan was right. Though she could never admit it to herself, perhaps it truly was a sickness carried through her veins, a lineage the moon elves would rather burn from history than acknowledge.

Whatever consumed her from within, she cared little for its origin. She only wanted relief. She had survived it before, but never without her blades. Silver would press against her skin until the familiar sting of pain reminded her she still drew breath. She became a living sacrifice to the gods, spilled blood granting her Melistra’s favor once more.

But now, there was only silk, a collar, and the unbearable attention of a vampire who had no right to look at her as though she was something he already owned.

“Elarian.”

Lucan’s voice cut through the haze. She lifted her gaze, eyes searching for his in the sea of gray. They found each other almost immediately. He stood several paces ahead, his expression unreadable beneath the dim light of the corridor. The cold arrogance of the Blooded Prince had returned the moment they left his bedchambers. The strange gentleness she had glimpsed while he dressed her buried itself beneath centuries of habit and cruelty. Now, in the corridors leading back to his chambers, it returned in fragments. He gestured at her as if offering assistance.

“You are walking slower.”

“Your pace has slowed.”

Amusement flickered across Lucan’s face. The edge of his scarred lip lifted with a smile as his gaze dropped to her hands. Elarian followed his attention, then immediately curled her fingers inward. She had not realized how badly they were shaking.

Godsdamn him. He noticed far too much about her.

Lucan’s expression darkened. “You are ill.”

“I am tired.”

“You are lying.”

She smiled faintly despite herself. “And you are a master of obvious observations. Perhaps the council should have discussed that instead of livestock.” Feeling his icy gaze on her throat, she turned away before she could study it too closely.

“You should be pleased,” she murmured. “Your little performance worked. Your court believes I am exactly what you wanted them to believe.”

Lucan said nothing.

Sucking in a ragged breath, Elarian forced herself to keep walking. Every step felt as though she was dragging a limp body through deep water. The fever had settled into her bones now, an ache that made her teeth grind and her vision blur at the edges. Sweat gathered at the nape of her neck, rubbing the metal collar against her throat until the air burned raw over her skin.

By the time they reached the deep ebony doors leading to Lucan’s chambers, Elarian could scarcely hold her head up. Every once in a while, she heard the scrape of chains over stone. If she were stronger, she might’ve been able to escape. If I were stronger, I would not even be here, she thought bitterly. Oblivious to her weakened state, Lucan opened the heavy carved wooden doors. Shadows curled along the edges of the room as if welcoming him home. The familiar scent of blood and night air washed over her, mixed with the lingering stench of their disastrous tumble into each other’s arms.

“Well…” Lucan said expectantly. He gestured for Elarian to enter.

She took only a single step inside before the room swayed and her footing faltered. For a long moment, she saw only blurred shapes and faded colors. She blinked, inhaling deeply as she tried to settle her racing heart. Blisters cracked across her forearms, blood within demanding release; yet, when she looked down, her skin remained untouched—except for Lucan’s bruises.

Lucan’s hand moved toward her. Elarian forced herself back on instinct. The sudden motion sent pain lancing through her skull, and she caught herself against the wall before her knees gave out. Predators did not show weakness. Prey did. Elarian had spent centuries ensuring no one ever mistook her for the latter. She had no intention of letting Lucan ever see just how hotly she burned by carrying Melistra’s Grace.

“Do not,” she whispered.

His hand lowered. The distance between them felt impossibly heavier than the chain around her throat.

“Then rest.”

Elarian looked toward the bed where she had surrendered herself the night before. The place where she had discarded the blade at her side. Where she had looked at a monster and, for one terrible moment, saw something else before desecrating herself with his blood-stained touch.

Her stomach twisted.

“I am not yours to command.” The words struggled to escape her clenched throat, sound barely more than a dying whisper.

Lucan’s gaze softened. “This is not a command.”