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“Focus on getting your strength back and let me worry about the future.” She stood, smoothing her skirts. “I’ll call for a bath to be drawn, and I’ll see if the cook can make you some soup.” She held up a finger as he started to protest. “Easy food first, Samuel.”

Frowning, he crossed his arms over his chest. “Fine.”

Leaning forward, she pressed her lips to his forehead, gentle and kind. He pushed himself up on his elbows, trying to chase her, but she grabbed him by the shoulders, holding him fast.

“Samuel, wait,” she said, as he tried to ignore the way she affected him so. “You’re still recovering, darling.” Brushing the hair from his face, she added, “We have all the time in the world.”

“You’re right,” he admitted, though he did not want to. They had already wasted so much time, but now that his power was gone, he could at least have this.

Isaac was lost to them, perhaps forever, but he could still have her.

“Hey, Shan,” he called, catching her with her hand on the doorknob. “Thanks.”

She glanced back, her brow furrowed. “You don’t have to thank me, Samuel. I take care of my own.”

With that, she was gone, leaving him with a feeling of warmth that had nothing to do with the sun on his face.

Chapter Forty-Seven

Shan

It had been three weeks since that disastrous day, two weeks since Samuel had awoken, and the King had planned an exceptional celebration—a gala that would honor them for the work they had done.

Shan didn’t think they had done much to be honored for—the killer had achieved his goals, and she had lost half of her heart for it—but the King would not be dissuaded. He had given them the date and told them when to arrive. He would handle the rest.

While the King had spent two weeks planning a ball that would put the rest of Dameral to shame, Shan had spent that time with Samuel, helping him regain his strength, teaching him the basics of Blood Working, scheming and plotting. They both knew that the King was going to do something at this ball, but none of her birds could find out what. Not that her birds were having much success of late, with the new laws that held Aeravin in a stranglehold.

So the time ticked away, and all they could do was prepare for the worst.

But the night of the ball finally arrived, and they showed up at the palace hours early, as promised. Servants ushered them apart, taking them to different dressing rooms, where the outfits the King had commissioned for them waited.

Laurens herself presented it to Shan, and Shan clasped her old friend’s hands. When Laurens leaned in for a kiss on the cheek, she whispered, “Trouble is coming, Sparrow.”

Shan leaned back, wishing she could do more, but she was trapped by the role the King had demanded of her. She could only squeeze Lauren’s hand as she was helped into the dress, knowing that her country hung on the brink of destruction. But what could she do?

At least the dress was beautiful, unlike anything that she had ever seen—a rich silk gown the color of blood itself. It hugged her torso, bands of silk wrapping over her breasts and flowing into a loop around her neck, leaving wide swathes of skin exposed. The skirt flared out at her waist, layers of silk in various lengths that fell to the floor.

The servants styled her hair carefully, pinning it back so that it flowed like a waterfall down her back, twisting in dark curls that hung like shadows. Her eyes were lined with kohl—sharp and harsh—and her lips painted a deep red. She was beautiful and deadly, and she smiled at her reflection in the mirror. It was bolder than she would have chosen for herself, but she loved every bit of it.

“It’s time,” one of the serving girls muttered, and Shan followed her towards the sounds of the ball. She wasn’t ushered down the stairs, right in the heart of the party like she had anticipated, but moved to a small interior balcony. “Please wait here,” the serving girl instructed, then disappeared with a curtsy.

Not knowing what else to do, Shan stepped to the ledge, looking out over the ballroom beneath her. All the nobles of Aeravin had been gathered, called back from the country with an invitation that could not be ignored. But though the Eternal King had not thrown a ball on his own in centuries, all those years of inactivity hadn’t dulled his skills as host. If anything, they just made him all the more intense about it. There was food and music and the tinkling of conversation—every detail precise and perfect.

Shan ached to be down there—to slip into the heart of the party, flitting from conversation to dance to conversation, drawing out useful bits of information as she captivated those around her.

But she had to wait, the time slipping past her as more guests arrived. She wrapped her hands around the banister, her ceremonial claws—dull and decorated with rubies to suggest blood without actually drawing it—tapped an incessant beat.

“Shan?”

She spun around at the sound of her name, turning to see Samuel step from the shadows into the light. Her breath caught as her eyes roved hungrily over him—she couldn’t help it. If the King had been bold with her style, it was nothing compared to what he had chosen for Samuel.

He looked positively indecent, and Shan couldn’t tear her gaze away.

His trousers were tight, form-fitting black breeches tucked away into leather boots. He wore no jacket, just shirtsleeves and a waistcoat, delicately embroidered red roses on a black background—the King’s own royal design. Scandalously, he wore no cravat, the neck of his shirt open to bare his throat and part of his chest. His sleeves were also tucked up past his elbows, leaving his forearms bare to the touch.

His scars—still as deep and dark as the day he had received them—were proudly on display for all to see. They crossed over his hands, ran up his arms and disappeared into his sleeves. They crawled up his neck, drawing her eyes to every bob of his throat, and Shan was consumed with the ridiculous urge to put her mouth on them.

“You look lovely,” he said, stepping closer. She forced her eyes to his, only to find her own hunger mirrored in his gaze.