It had been a long time since I’d really looked at myself in the mirror. My body was starting to look healthy again, the muscles more defined on my shoulders and arms, the high slit of the skirt revealing a graceful swell of thigh. I turned around and looked at my back. The dress dipped low without the mantle’s cape, leaving it bare. The firelight played over the topography of my skin—tight over newly-developed muscles, stronger than they ever had been even at my peak physical fitness, marred by a few scars from a lifetime of fighting.
I was as strong as I was before. Stronger, even. My body showed it.
I faced forward again, running my gaze from my feet to my face. My face—serious and stoic. Big silver eyes. Low dark eyebrows. Cheeks that were starting to fill out. A mouth that was too thin and serious.
I looked like him.
The resemblance struck me all at once, suddenly undeniable. The coloring was all different, of course, my hair night-black compared to Vincent’s blond. But we had the same icy pallor to our skin. The same flat brow, the same silver eyes.
He spent an entire fucking lifetime lying about what was plainly painted on my face.
But then again, that was our entire relationship. He’d raised me to look at the bars of my cage and call them trees.
And then, finally, my eyes drifted down, past the curve of my jaw, to the very exposed column of my throat. To the two sets of scars there—one I had asked for, one that I hadn’t.
When I went to the door, I left the mantle on the floor.
36
RAIHN
I’d give him this: Cairis was a hell of a party planner. Somehow, within a court plagued by unpopularity, indecision, power struggles, and two ongoing civil wars, he’d still managed to throw together a wedding celebration that looked as if it was held by the grandest of Nightborn dynasties. He’d transformed the castle into an embodiment of peak Rishan leadership. One would never guess that two weeks ago, the place had been stripped bare, caught awkwardly in the transition of a coup.
No, it now looked just like it had two hundred years ago, just newer—right down to the flower arrangements. Someone else might have been surprised that he’d remembered all that detail, but I understood it. I’d been right there beside him, after all. Lots of time to study the details when you’re desperate for something to distract you through the worst nights.
I couldn’t afford to be distracted right now, even though I wanted to be. Neculai Vasarus would not have been distracted—he’d be reveling in this shit. I wasn’t him, but still, I slipped into the role the same way I slipped into the too-tight jacket Cairis had dressed me in—awkwardly, but with enough confidence to make it look like second nature.
The position of every single muscle was intentional—the straight back, the raised chin, the loose, casual grip on my bloodstained wine glass, the steely stare with which I surveyed the ballroom.
The feast had begun. The nobles had started to arrive. All was, so far, going as it should. I kept waiting for someone to flaunt their disrespect. It didn’t happen.
But Simon Vasarus still had not arrived.
Neither had Oraya, though I’d been assured by an openly irritated Cairis that she was coming. Nothing was easy with that woman. It was kind of comforting.
I leaned against the wall and took a sip from my glass. Human blood, of course—it had to be human blood for an event like this, Cairis was insistent upon that—but all from well-compensated blood vendors, and blended with vampire blood and deer blood. More blood vendors would be joining the feast later in the night to offer fresh delicacies too. I’d tripled their pay when no one was paying attention, and commanded Ketura to keep a close eye on them. I knew she’d do it. Ketura was prickly, but unlike most members of my court, she didn’t seem to view my views on humans to be some sort of semi-endearing, semi-irritating eccentricity to be managed.
I’d rather they not be here at all. But change, I had to remind myself, came in small steps. This party had to convince a lot of important, terrible bastards that I was one of them.
So far, it was looking the part.
The blood was sweet and flat, slightly bitter with the added alcohol. Biology meant that human blood would always taste good to me—no moral stance could change that. It seemed like a fucking injustice that human blood, even taken against someone’s will, would always taste good, while a perfectly seasoned steak now tasted like ash unless it was bloody-rare.
Still, since the Kejari, even human blood didn’t hold the same appeal. It tasted… one-note. Either too savory or too cloying.