You know what you need? A woman, that’s what. I wish you’d get over yourself and stop being such a fucking prude. Vampire or not.
I do not need a woman. Look what just happened. The one I’m carrying in my arms? She’s the first woman I’ve encountered in over three years. And in an instant, she demolished every last sliver of self-control that I possess.
I don’t know what came over me. Her scent was so strong; so overpowering. I’ve never experienced anything like that in my life, and I’ve been this way for over three years now. As soon as her essence reached my nose, I was gone. Nothing was going to stop me from tasting her. Nothing.
So I did.
And it was glorious.
And for the very first time since the infernal death-curse dragged me back into the world of the living, my terrible thirst is completely sated.
I drank from her and I would do it again, because nothing I’ve ever known compares to the taste of her blood.
Now she’s in my arms, trying to pretend that she isn’t afraid, even though she’s so obviously terrified.
It’s in the stiffness of her body; in her shallow, flighty breathing. It’s in the way she looks at me, her eyes wild and wide.
My footsteps are light upon the ground. The snow and mud and the gravity of the earth do little to restrain me. I’m simply stronger and faster, capable of moving great distances in the blink of an eye.
I follow the road—my road, although she doesn’t know that yet.
What is a nobleborn woman doing, traveling through Tyron in the middle of winter?
What was she thinking?
I cannot even fathom.
The nobles in Lukiria all know to leave me well alone, and even if they didn’t, not a single one of them would be foolhardy enough to travel to Tyron in winter.
Why would anyone come all the way out here?
The scent of blood reaches my nose again—someone else’s blood. It’s dull and lackluster; nothing at all like the pure, heady sweetness flowing through this woman’s veins.
I slow down. I can hear voices. Male. Two of them. Arguing in the background. I detect the slow clop of hooves and the creaking of carriage wheels.
“Told you I should’ve gone,” one of the men says. He sounds young; probably barely out of adolescence. “What if Finley’s gotten lost? Or been caught by brigands?”
Finley.
Is that her name? I store it in the back of my mind for later.
At the mention of brigands, cold anger flickers inside me.
How dare they enter my lands?
I will deal with them later. Personally.
“You underestimate her, Garan. She’s not going to get lost,” another male says adamantly. “She’s got an uncanny sense of direction, and she’s a damn good rider. Besides, she’s the one who’s betrothed to Duthriss. She’ll probably have a lot more sway over the Archduke than you or I. Fin can be pretty persuasive when she wants.”
Wait… what?
Not much can take me by surprise these days, but this time, I almost choke.
Betrothed? To this sweet little thing?
It’s the first I’ve heard of it. My anger rises. I’ve made my intentions very clear. Which meddling idiot in the court would be stupid enough to defy me?
Even father knows to leave me alone.
Was he behind this?
Whoever it was, they must be incompetent or stupid or malicious or truly desperate. Sending her to the Northlands in the middle of winter with an inadequate escort?
To the point where lives are put at risk? Where her life is endangered?
Quietly, I seethe.
Someone will pay for this.
I slow down as I catch sight of the carriage. It’s a basic model; sturdy and functional, although lacking in the ornamentation and without the more sophisticated engineering that would make the ride smoother and faster.
It’s the sort of carriage that would be used by a low-ranking noble. No different from the thousands I’ve seen in Lukiria.
The side door is badly damaged. The stench of lycan clings to it, cutting through the distinctive coppery tang of human blood. With such a strong smell of blood hanging in the air, I would usually be tested to the very limits of my self-control.
But this time, I’m not even remotely tempted.
Compared to her blood, there is nothing tempting about this wounded mortal’s blood, which is just as well for him.
I stare at the wooden panel of the door, which is torn and splintered.
Lycan were here last night. Did they attack? Was Finley in that carriage?
All the more reason for me to be furious.
I reach the middle of the road and set Finley down. She stifles a gasp and instinctively steps away from me, her entire body stiffening as she shoots me a look that’s equal parts fear and astonishment.
I tend to have that effect on people.
I generally don’t care.
But seeing her reaction to me…
Somehow, it’s a thousand times worse.
We’re almost upon the carriage now. The smell of blood is overpowering. The poor kid must’ve lost a lot.
Finley’s sense of urgency is justified. If he doesn’t get treated by a healer soon, he’ll be greeting Hecoa in the Underworld.
The driver, a young lad with dark hair and eyes and the typical clean-shorn hair of a knight, catches sight of us.
He wears simple leather armor. A sword hangs from his side. I recognize the coiled serpent insignia on his chest. It’s from Ruen, a small barony in the Midlands. I know of it, but only vaguely. Faint memories flicker through my mind—I believe I visited the castle there when I was a child, with father.
From what I can remember, it was quite basic, but there was a nice, homely garden. I vaguely recall playing in the woods just outside the castle.
Why are these lads here? Why her?
The lord of Ruen holds no special power or influence within the Rahavan Court. In fact, my father despises most of the minor lords, with their shameless ambition and posturing and sycophantic behavior. I’m sure Baron Solisar is no exception.
The carriage driver slows. A man jumps out of the cabin; yet another lad who’s barely into manhood. I wouldn’t even accept recruits this green into my army.
As soon as he catches sight of me, he draws his sword.
His stance isn’t bad, although it needs slight correction; with proper training, he has potential.
“Finley!” he shouts as they roll to a stop. His eyes hold a healthy level of distrust and fear as he looks me up and down, trying to gauge whether I’m friend or foe. “Who the bloody hell is this? Where are Duthriss’s people?”
I’m already moving, easily evading his blade, ignoring him as I reach the steps of the carriage. He’s no threat. He can’t even touch me.
I enter. Shards of broken glass are everywhere. Thick woolen blankets are strewn across the seats. In one corner, a ludicrous quantity of green-and-gold silk has been deposited, deformed by a mass of wires that’s supposed to form a skirt-like structure.
Beneath my scarf, my lips curve in wry amusement. This must be the dress that Finley cast aside. I don’t blame her. It’s a monstrosity.
My attention turns to the poor wretch lying on the floor. His torso is wrapped with blankets which are tightly secured by a belt. His eyes are closed, his breathing shallow.
His face is deathly pale. Shadows encircle his eyes.
Years of experience on the battlefield tell me he’s hovering close to death. If he is to be saved, he needs a healer, now.