Page 136 of Disillusioned (A Lay of Ruinous Reign #2)

“No,” he answered, but there was no grief behind his eyes.

“Alor and Laurent were fathers to me more than Pascal ever was—eventually. At first, Alor told me I was much too young, but I’d pointed out he himself was barely old enough to lead a kingdom into war.

He argued Geoffrey wasn’t made for it like he was.

” Garin laughed, and his dimples flanking the rows of fangs made her breath catch.

“He was right. Mid-thirties, talented leader, and a barren wife, or so we thought.”

“What does that mean?”

“Katella married the king and fell pregnant with his son just after Alor had gone missing. It was a quick affair, but she was wrought with grief. She refused to address it publicly. Rumor had it, Alor had left her a note telling her he couldn’t live with himself after everything he’d witnessed. But Bast and I knew the truth.”

He ground his teeth; Lilac had inched the head of the forceps further into his wound.

“You told me he’d gone to kill himself before completing the change.”

“That’s… right.” He exhaled roughly. “I’ve heard it’s hard to do.”

His fists were clenched so tight, she feared the chains would pop off of their own accord.

“Did Alor and Geoffrey reside in the Le Tallec estate?” The forceps caught the end of the bullet, then slipped off, causing him to snarl; he turned his head away from her to do so, and Lilac took another deep breath as she repositioned the prongs.

“Back then, it was the Chateau de Penthièvre,” he breathed, “and I prefer to recognize it as such today, though my newfound abhorrence for them makes it almost impossible to see it as much else. The king back then wanted Alor to take anyone tall enough to wield a sword and bow, ride a horse, but the duke’s son was eventually willing to make exceptions—especially for me and Bastion, who never left my side after I saved him from being impaled by the new recruits.

He was shorter, then. Two years my junior. ”

The prongs closed around the bullet, and his breath hitched. Lilac lightly placed her hand reassuringly on his bicep, feeling it flex—then relax—at her touch. “Did he know your parents? ”

“He knew of them. Alor knew I was Pascal and Aimee’s son. My mother was an acquaintance of his wife’s—they’d met briefly before, at The Fool's Folly.”

“Katella was a customer of your mother’s?”

She’d glanced up at him, somehow shocked yet another peek into his incredible but brief human existence—accidentally yanking the prongs out.

He jumped at her sudden movement and, likely, the pain, his legs kicking out involuntarily.

The chair skidded back, almost toppling him over.

She caught and steadied him before quickly scuttling away.

“ Fuck! ” Garin cussed in a roar, the word tapering off into a low groan that felt like hands gripping the small of her waist as the wound upon his bicep began to close before her very eyes.

Lilac opened her hand. The object in it was multicolored and marbled, but she couldn’t tell much else.

It was covered in his blood. She went to dip it into the still-warm bath and held it up in the light; it was smooth and round, coated in a thin, clear layer.

Inside was a crude swirl of metal and dark wood.

“Iron and hawthorn.” A wave of nausea roiled through her. She turned it over and over in her hand, picturing the armory cart left on the hill below Garin’s property, where they’d gotten the bows and quivers filled with arrows.

Garin straightened. Blood from his leg covered the seat and dripped onto her rug. “Those fucking bastards.”

“It’s covered in glass.” Lilac tapped it with her nail, each plink a deafening sound in the still air. “That barrier must be what kept you conscious.”

“Let them come,” Garin growled. “I’ll finish each and every one of them.”

“You won’t. Not now that we know they have guns, and this kind of horrid ammunition.”

She teetered, stomping past him to deposit the bullet onto her mantle, far away from him.

Her letter would make it to King Henry, and they could send their horses, but Garin wouldn’t have any part in it except for training new recruits.

She wouldn’t allow it. Her own men would have to fight, as they should’ve all along; Francois’s army posed an even greater threat to her Daemon populace than burning Brocéliande to the ground.

Except, there was no time. His men were already outside her bordering fortresses, waiting with cannons and guns filled with weaponry poised to destroy all of Garin’s coven if they so pleased.

She rounded his chair, interrupting his string of curses.

“Your leg. Now,” she demanded, snatching the long hooked tool again and positioning herself.

She kneeled and spread his legs, lowering the prongs into Garin’s thigh.

The shaft of the hooked tool sank much deeper than it had in his arm.

He inhaled sharply when it hit the bullet—roughly half its length down—and she withdrew it.

Totally focused, fueled by pure panic and rage, Lilac slid the forceps in, widened it infinitesimally, and grasped the end of the bullet. When she did, Garin lunged at her, his jaws snapping in her direction.

Startled, she yanked away, squeezing the bullet in the prongs as she fell back on her ass—the tool ripping out of him. Lilac shrank away from the murderous expression that shadowed his features, dropped the piece in her hand, and hastily washed it off.

When the water ran clear, a mess of glass and iron sat in her palm.

The bullet had broken in her grasp—half remaining in his muscle.

Slowly, she looked up at him. Garin glanced desperately up at her, his hunger and rage battling for his sanity. It was a wonder he was still seated.

“I’m so?—”

“Don’t,” he panted, begging when she stepped closer. “Go get Myrddin. Or Rupert. Don’t come near me.”

But there was no time. Raw hawthorn was lodged in Garin’s body, along with the broken glass, both cutting into him. He looked green. He might not be breathing when she returned to the room.

Garin’s eyes began to cross, saliva dripping from his twisted mouth.

Heart pounding, core throbbing, Lilac stumbled forward and placed herself in his lap. She used her ankles to sweep his legs open, spreading them to make his wounded thigh available to her.

Garin resisted for all of two seconds. Then, his nose found the curve where her neck met her shoulder, and he inhaled like a man starving.

“Lilac,” he rasped, voice cracking. She could feel the tremble in his frame, the way he barely held himself together.

“I can’t. Don’t—holy shit .” The words barely held form, broken and entirely unconvincing.

But she didn’t stop. Couldn’t . His need was a command on its own. She ground over his hardening cock—of her own accord or his simmering ache, she did not know—but Lilac pressed against him, offering warmth, and blood, and something that no longer had a name or held shape.

“ What are you doing? ” he growled helplessly, claws curled.

“Saving you,” she managed.

His answer was a sharp tug against her scalp. Fingers down her throat. “You’ll be dead before you have the chance.”

Lilac stilled in his lap.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Then she slid to the side, trembling and perching herself on his good thigh. Her pulse was frantic with his hot breath, sharp fangs inches away from her neck. But her fingers were steady.

In her left hand, the hawthorn stake gleamed; she’d plunge it into him if he tried to attack her. In her right hand, she hovered the prongs of her forceps above the angry wound.

Garin’s eyes were slow to rise, still rimmed with hunger. But hers held.

“Trust me,” Lilac whispered, gritted her teeth—and hesitated before sticking the tool back in.

If she’d broken the bullet, the pieces might be too minuscule to grab without repeated injury.

She swallowed, dropped the forceps, and without warning—inserted her small finger into the wound.

It grazed something hard—not bone. She grimaced, and Garin hissed against her skin, teeth scraping but not breaking as she dug deeper, and finally found the next large piece.

Even his blood and muscle seemed repelled by it, and she managed to get her nail around it to scrape it out, to his most intense displeasure.

Lilac breathed through the stab of heat at her core—a punishing pain of want.

There it was. Glass, hawthorn, and a dull metal in two crumbled shards on her palm. She made sure before letting it fall to the floor.

She was about to get up, retrieve the key to undo his shackles so she could feel his hands on her?—

But the wound remained open and oozing. Confused, she swept the flaps of his trousers aside and peered closer. Was there more? Smaller pieces she’d missed? She wiped her hand across her front, ready to try again.

Then, Garin gave his next command, his breath against her hair. A single word, this time laced with conviction and unfaltering desire. “Still. ”

She froze against him, her body instantly slipping under his spell. Securing her in place.

“Did you know this would happen when you enthralled yourself to me? Did you know that I’d need to feed more than the average vampire does?

” Instinctively, she sidled closer, further onto his lap as his arms flexed on either side of her.

“That all it takes is a simple injury for me to morph into something that can no longer wait the three days it takes before the discomfort sets in? I did not. Not until tonight.”

A strangled whimper of surprise rose in her throat at the fury in his voice. She shook her hair off her neck, encouraging him further; he didn’t bite, so she shifted in his arms to better see his face. It had barely been three days since their bond had formed. “But you’ve fed.”