Page 47

I knocked on the door of Raphael’s chambers, then tapped my foot impatiently when I didn’t hear a response.

I’d never been to his chambers before; Raphael had never actually told me where his private quarters were. When I’d ask Amalthea, she’d burst out laughing.

“Surely you’re joking.”

Do I seem like I’m trying to surprise Raphael in bed? I wanted to retort. But just the thought made me flush. Besides, he’d rejected me. He didn’t want me. All the wine in the world wouldn’t convince me that was a good idea. “It’s where he said to meet him.”

“But… don’t you know wh ere his rooms are?”

I shook my head. Wandering into the vampire king’s chambers wasn’t on my limited list of activities I was comfortable doing. “Why would I?”

I knocked again. When there was no answer, I cast a glance about the hallway. It was the time we’d agreed to meet.

I threw the door to his chambers open.

And blinked at the scene before me. Demos was in the room, dressed in his uniform, his arms crossed as he stood in front of Raphael, who was turned a quarter away from me.

Raphael was naked.

Well, he had a towel around his hips. His hair was damp, the water dripping from the white tips over his jawline.

His chest was on full display and bore no sign of the whips at Greymere.

His skin was unbroken, stretching over hard muscle.

He was perched on the edge of a massive desk, his hands gripping into the wood, flexing the muscles of his arms.

My skin grew hot and tight when I realized I was interrupting. Gods, and I thought him and Amalthea…

“I’ll come back another time,” I squeaked.

Demos didn’t look at me as he said, “We can continue this conversation another time.”

“No. The matter is closed.” Raphael’s voice brooked no room for argument.

I was missing context, but clearly I was interrupting Vampire Kingdom business, not some rendezvous. I was curious, because of course I was, but I chased the emotion away. Their politics don’t concern you .

“You can’t just ignore this,” Demos said through clenched teeth.

“I’m not,” Raphael snapped. His gaze flashed towards me, then back at Demos as the blade of his tone dulled just a fraction. “What I’m doing is refusing to discuss it at this time and ordering you not to investigate further.”

Demos turned away from his king, not waiting for a proper dismissal, and brushed past me.

His expression was cold and unfriendly, unlike the neutral expression I knew from our daily practice.

He had too much restraint to slam the door given he was however-many hundreds of years old instead of a toddler, but the solid thud it shut with was enough for me to register how he felt about Raphael’s response to whatever argument.

“Good evening to you,” he drawled.

“Don’t ‘good evening’ me,” I blubbered. “You’re indecent!”

He arched a brow at me, making no move to cover himself. “I’m not the one who barged in.”

“You told me to meet you in your chambers at this time,” I reminded him. “ And I knocked.”

Raphael shrugged, unrepentant. His bare shoulders really shouldn’t look that good doing something as mundane as shrugging, but I watched every flex of his muscles against my will.

“Demos caught me while I was bathing. No sense of timing with that one.” He gave a what-can-you-do sigh that was distinctly un-kingly as he brushed his wet hair back with one hand.

“You have preternatural speed. You could dress in seconds.” I hoped the annoyance in my tone would disguise the fact I was having a very hard time not looking at Raphael like this.

“What can I say? I like to take my time.” But he did push off the desk and cross the room, grabbing some dark clothing and disappearing into another room. He did not, however, shut the door.

I worked very hard not to think about Raphael dressing in the next room, and studied his chambers.

They were similar to my own: a sitting room and office, with a grand desk that would have been more impressive if it wasn’t covered in mountains of parchment.

The door where he’d disappeared was likely the washroom, and another shut door that was certainly his sleeping quarters.

The decorations were different from my own, darker colors, less ornamentation but still luxurious.

Raphael reappeared, mercifully clothed. Kind of.

His hair was still wet, skewed in a half-dozen directions like he’d shook it in a towel.

His clothing was simply a pair of woven charcoal-gray slacks and a deep mauve silk shirt that was only partly buttoned.

Different from his usual black. I studied him for a heartbeat too long before he cleared his throat .

Oh. Right. I was annoyed at him. It took a second to recall the emotions that had me pounding on the door, but once I did, I was seething all over.

“You put me next door to you?” I demanded.

“Finished looking and straight to business,” he said mildly.

I ignored the remark. “How did I not know you were stationed across the hall?”

“Perhaps you simply aren’t overly observant,” he offered.

I didn’t exactly patrol the hallways, but that wasn’t enough to convince me. If I didn’t know, it was because he didn’t want me to know. All these weeks, and I hadn’t seen him enter or leave once. The bastard had offered to walk me to my rooms on more than one occasion.

“Why am I sleeping across from you, Raphael? You know what people are going to think,” I hissed.

Raphael drew closer from across the room, until he was right in front of me. There was something lethal about him in this state, half-dressed, hair still wet. And yet his red eyes were utterly focused on me. “What are they going to think, dove?”

Was he going to make me spell it out? “That I—that you—we— ergh !” I was too flustered to get the words out. Kings used the chambers near them for favored mistresses. It would seem like I was placed near him to meet his physical needs .

By the smirk that threatened the left corner of his lips, he knew exactly what I was referring to. He just enjoyed torturing me.

“You know exactly what they’re going to think,” I groused.

Raphael cocked a brow. “I’m not in the habit of letting gossip dictate my actions. Besides, do you really care what a bunch of vampires think of your sexual proclivities?”

Sexual proclivities . If a pit straight to the second hell could open in the floor then and there, I’d prostrate myself in thanks to the god of circles himself.

“You could have put me near Amalthea,” I sputtered.

“You’re safest near me .” He took a step closer. “You’re my Chosen, Samara. Or at least you are in their eyes, because that’s what keeps you safe in my kingdom.”

My understanding of being one of his Chosen only meant, for vampire society, I was off limits for anyone but Raphael to drink from. If that was true, there was no reason for me to have chambers across from him.

Not unless there was more to the title than that.

My cheeks heated. At once, the image of Raphael’s undressed body arose, coupled with the thought of what others in the kingdom thought we’d be doing with such proximity.

And he’d let them think that!

“You’re frustrated,” Raphael remarked .

I tried to bite down on the emotion, but it was a lot easier to contort your face than your emotions. “This is why I need you to help me block the link.”

“As I’ve told you, you wear every emotion on your face. Anyone who knows you could figure that out.”

Anyone who knows me . For a long time, there’d been no one like that. Now, it seemed, I had a vampire who could read me as easily as a book. I couldn’t be sure how I felt about that, mainly because I disliked it less than I was supposed to.

Raphael moved back behind his desk, putting some distance between us. “Join me.”

I followed him and sank into one of the plush leather seats on the other side of the table. I gestured to the stacks of letters and missives. “Don’t you have others who could take care of this for you?”

Raphael gave the piles a rueful smile. “Most of it, I delegate. But some things still require me to handle personally—though in six hundred years I’ve never developed an affinity for paperwork.”

I could make out the familiar scrawl of the common tongue. Having gone a decade without reading or writing, my grasp was tenuous, but returning more each day as I studied Old Runyk and read the books Amalthea gave me. Or at least, the ones worthy of time.

“How much do you know about mental magic?” Raphael asked.

“I’m a void, so I’d say hardly anything.”

Raphael steepled his fingers on the wood. “It’s like this: With most magic, there’s a physical manifestation that witches focus on. With mental magic, telepaths, truth-seekers, and similar, you instead have to focus on quieting your mind and seeing the magic there.”

“But I’m not a witch,” I reminded him.

“You’ll be able to do this,” he said with conviction.

“It simply takes practice. The principle is the same as with other mental magic. Imagine in your mind a barrier around your thoughts. As though they’re foiled in cursed copper, repelling me.

Take one emotion and concentrate on stirring it, then hiding it from me. ”

It was impossible to concentrate while Raphael looked at me so I shut my eyes.

I recalled the frustration from earlier and imagined winding it into a tight ball and covering it in glinting plates of copper.

I drew a deep breath, trying to solidify the mental wall.

It felt a bit silly, but I wanted my privacy, so I used all my concentration to try to follow Raphael’s instructions.

“Frustration. You’re trying too hard,” he remarked.

“Isn’t the entire point to practice?”

“Not if you want me to be blocked from your emotions throughout the day. Like this, you can try to hide specific feelings, but you’re bound to slip. Try again.”