Page 67 of Blackthorn


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Charlotte kicked off the shoes and left them in a pile at the door. She hurried across the cold stone floor, heading for the carpet by the fireplace. Before too long, she had a blaze going and warmed herself by the fire as she towel-dried her hair.

Warm and dry, her emotions settled. Oh, she still felt like a fool. For the last year, she’d been ever so diligent in her efforts to avoid self-reflection. There had been much to do, starting with arranging the funeral of her monstrous husband. The tasks had been never-ending, starting with the flowers. Her sister-in-law had opinions on every issue and pestered Charlotte until matters were resolved to her satisfaction.

Then there were the more delicate questions. Did Charlotte wear black? She was a widow, but her husband did attempt to murder her on their wedding day. How long was she required to publicly mourn? Should she mourn Lionel at all? Etiquette books failed to cover such situations.

After the funeral, Charlotte threw herself into the legal battle for control over Lionel’s estate. The same opinionated sister-in-law argued that Lionel’s nephew should inherit, and Charlotte should be content with a stipend. Charlotte didn’t care about Lionel’s fortune, but the legal challenge was a welcome distraction.

Anything to avoid thinking about why she agreed to marry Lionel in the first place. A considerable gap in their ages existed. They had few interests in common. He was on friendly terms with her father, for crying out loud. They were so ill-suited that even with the limited choices available in the village, he hadn’t registered as a possible match.

Then he proposed, much to her surprise. Why, when he was so much older than her and they had so little in common, did she say yes?

Oh, there was the predictable answer. She was an old maid and seized on an opportunity. Lionel was a gentleman of means. He was a good match. Frankly, she had been flattered at his attention. She hadn’t wanted to question it then, and she certainly did not want to think about it now.

That’s why she agreed to leave her home and participate in this farce of a marriage. She had run out of distractions—mourning, legal questions, and so on—and had to reflect on her relationship with her monstrous spouse.

A vampire offering a shady deal was just the diversion she needed. Hearing firsthand accounts of humanity’s arrival on the planet was the greatest destruction of them all.

What did it get her? Nothing. She was in exactly the same position: the second wife who failed to anchor the monster.

Charlotte rubbed her throat. The injuries sustained at her first wedding had long since healed, but the sensation lingered. One never quite forgot the feeling of encroaching darkness as the life was strangled out of them.

Wind roared outside the window, carrying the echoes of his voice. “What is wrong with you? Why don’t I care if you die? Where is our bond?”

She still felt his hot and rancid breath as he attempted to tear her throat out. Charlotte had been utterly terrified, caught in paralysis, and unable to do anything more than whimper. Only the actions of Solenne, Luis, and Aleksander had saved her.

She had doubts before the wedding. Of course she did. Lionel had his secrets. He had a previous wife that Charlotte only learned of on the day of their wedding. And his affliction, of course. With Draven, she knew his secrets. Or she thought she did.

It all led back to the same conclusion: she failed to be an anchor. Twice.

Draven

“No,” he said the moment Charlotte opened the door.

She was not amused and slammed the door. He stuck his hand in the doorframe, preventing the door from closing.

“No,” he repeated, pushing past her into the room.

“I thought vampires had to be invited in,” she muttered darkly. Then, in a polished and refined voice, she asked, “Exactly what do you mean?”

“You do not walk away when we are having a disagreement.”

“You mean I’m not allowed to?”

“I mean I am lord of this place and you will not leave,” he said.

“Until you say so?” Anger laced every word.

“Until I am finished with you.” He knew then that he would never be finished with her.

“Well, here I am. Pray, let’s continue our little disagreement. I know I only have a handful of years, so I’m afraid my contribution will be lacking.” She spread her hands wide in a sarcastic gesture even as she threw his words back at him.

“There’s no point if you insist on acting like a child— “

“I am not a child. I’m nearly thirty years old!”

“And I’m two hundred and forty-one. You’re a child from my point of view.”

Her nostrils flared and she huffed. She took a deep breath and released it slowly. “I don’t like arguing, Draven.”

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