“I…” He looks utterly crestfallen. “W-what happened to you?” he blurts, shaking his head slowly, before it dawns on him that his line of questioning might be highly inappropriate. “I mean… I didn’t mean to be so forward, but…”
“We waged a war against magic,” I say softly. “I got hit by the magic. There were… as you can see, side-effects.”
“S-sorry. I wasn’t trying to be rude. I just…”
“Forgive him, Corvan. Sometimes, Kastel speaks before he thinks.” Finley attempts to smooth things over; cool and calm on the outside in spite of her fluttering heartbeat.
“It’s fine.” Unable to help myself, I move closer.
A tiny puff of relief escapes her lips.
I want to tease her. What, did you think I’d take the lad’s head off for his unfettered curiosity?
“Make yourselves comfortable and enjoy the evening’s festivities. The tourney is about to start.” I smile, giving them a glimpse of my fangs. I am what I am. What does it matter if I look so very different; if they catch a glimpse of my unnaturalness.
They can’t touch me.
Not here, in my very own fortress.
Now Captain Kinnivar arrives, along with his companions. Nothing like a bit of military company to dilute the family drama.
The seats at the far end—the honorary positions—are reserved for Kaithar and Vinciel.
I tip my head. “Kyron. Galaen. Ingvar. Renfrei.”
“Your Highness.” Kinnivar and his band of highly trained warriors acknowledge me with respectful nods as they take their seats at the table, masking their unease well.
I put my hand on Finley’s waist. If she’s intimidated or nervous, she certainly doesn’t show it.
In this room full of tough, scarred men, she stands out from the men like a rare and delicate flower.
One that none would dare touch, because she is so very clearly mine.
“Come, Finley,” I murmur, guiding her away from the shocked boys; from her terrified-yet-furious father. “Take your place beside me and see the men I serve—the ones that will lay down their lives for you. We aren’t perfect, but we’ll defend these lands and people to the death. The Imperial Palace holds very little sway here.”
I pull out her chair and offer her a seat.
She looks up at me with naked curiosity. “The men you serve?”
“A true member of the nobility understands that even though one might be waited on hand and foot, the real servant is he or she that rules.”
“I’m starting to understand why they stay,” she says softly as I take my place beside her. “Even though this place is terribly cold, things are so different here… to the rest of the empire. I’d imagine it’s the complete opposite of what goes on in Lukiria.”
“It is, and that’s precisely why I don’t live there anymore.” Although I’m going to have to go back to that cesspit soon.
Finley’s mother could be there, in the Imperial Palace.
Is she still alive?
Have they tortured her? Killed her?
How in the Goddess’s name am I going to break it to her?
The first round of wrestling is about to start. The fighters are in the ring, bare-chested and gleaming, their hands covered in talcum powder. Kaithar is in the middle, holding them apart with his immovable hands, reciting the rules that both fighters know by heart.
“Begin.” His deep voice reverberates across the great hall. The two fighters encircle one another warily, searching for an opening.
Her mother.
The cold anger in me is now directed solely at my father.
Aralya.
The only one that knows about Finley’s abilities.
If I found her, would this exquisite creature sitting beside me start to trust me just a little bit more?
I know I’m a monster, but still…
I’m not a bad guy.
Most of the time.
27
FINLEY
The night passes in a blur. I watch as impossibly skilled fighters clash with terrifying ferocity. Corvan sits beside me on his throne-like chair, and he’s being mightily restrained. He hasn’t humiliated my father any further, even though it would have been easy for him. He hasn’t raked my younger brother over the coals for his earlier rudeness.
He makes genuine conversation with the boys, showing interest in their training, their hobbies, their views on Rahavan politics. To my surprise, he has an easy way about him when it suits him, quickly putting them at ease.
It’s only my father that he acts cold toward. The Baron of Ruen is completely iced out by the Archduke of Tyron. It’s a rebuke; a subtle public humiliation.
My father says nothing, watching the wrestlers with a sour expression.
It’s astonishing. Father, who used to cause me such trepidation, is completely sidelined.
Corvan reaches across and picks up a crystal decanter filled with crimson wine the same color as his eyes. “May I serve you a drink, Finley?”
His voice is deep and decadent; an overture heard only by me as the others become lost in their own conversations.
Suddenly, it’s as if we’re in our own little bubble.
“As long as you haven’t laced it with anything that would cause me to do strange things,” I say wryly, giving him a wary look.
“Trust me if I swear that I haven’t?”
“For now.”
He raises an eyebrow, somehow managing to look both wicked and earnest at the same time. “As much as I would love for you to benefit from my blood’s healing properties, I wouldn’t dare give it to you again until I understand why you were able to do that. We can’t have you melting the table in front of your family now, can we? They’ve got enough on their plates already.” He chuckles softly. “They’re still coming to grips with me.”
“Very well. Pour me a glass. If I end up putting a hole in the table, it’s all on you.”
“You won’t. This is Ciel’s exceptional Tusganes merlot without any magical intervention.”
“Your blood isn’t a curse if it can heal.”
“I’ve heard that before. But there’s always a price to these things, Finley.”
“It’s the thirst, isn’t it?” I say gently, my voice little more than a whisper. I know he can hear me amidst all the commotion.
He pours the rich red wine into my crystal glass and hands it to me. Our fingers meet ever so briefly.
Corvan leans close. His arm brushes against mine. I’m surrounded by his scent. He feels dangerously powerful and intimately familiar. His presence really is maddening. How is it possible that in such a short period of time, he’s able to have this effect on me?
“It’s the thirst,” he admits, whispering in my ear, his breath feathering my cheek. He’s too close, and people are noticing. “Amongst other things. It’s the fact that if I don’t control myself, I could kill someone. It’s the fact that I know every single thing that’s happening in this room right now. Whispered conversations across the other side of the hall. Their breaths. Their heartbeats. I can smell their blood. But I choose to shut them out in favor of you. Or you shut them out for me, because your presence is overwhelming. It’s the swift healing; the thought that I might not ever age, the impossible power, the speed at which I move, and then sometimes I forget that I’ve done so—shocking people unintentionally. It’s the fact that up until I met you, I couldn’t feel the warm sun on my face. It’s the realization that I’m no longer human, and I can’t ever go back to that, and sometimes I fear what I’ll be like when a lot of time has passed, living in this body.”