Page 92 of Disillusioned (A Lay of Ruinous Reign #2)

GARIN

W hoever gifted Eleanor this wine should be sent to the gallows, or perhaps a dull guillotine.

The taste was strange: bitter, then sweet, the savory lingering on his tongue—no combination of fruit he’d ever had.

He didn’t consider himself a slave to the bottle by any means, but it usually numbed his thoughts when his instincts were raging.

It was why he indulged after every pub brawl he’d broken up, every close encounter he’d had with the Le Tallec hunting troupe, to douse the fire of his adrenaline.

It was why he sipped Lorietta’s heaviest scotch when he’d asked Lilac to supper on the night they’d met, so she might not preemptively become his supper.

He’d downed half the fucking thing, but it wasn’t enough to dull his senses—nor the scent of her bleed, which made his gums throb. He might’ve felt himself getting drunk, but Garin was still desperate to bury his face between her thighs.

The only thing that remotely helped was fantasizing about smashing Rupert’s skull in.

Garin was the one who had ordered Lilac to go with him out of spite; he knew he’d regret it the moment he’d spoken the words.

It wasn’t her fault, yet he couldn’t help the visceral anger that bloomed from watching the bastard walk her down those steps, away from him.

He’d watched them dance, their bodies awkward yet unsettlingly familiar around one another.

They’d conversed with sweet Emma, both their faces red.

It was really none of his business, Garin told himself repeatedly. Lilac was the queen—a free woman, and he wasn’t the type to build a cage around her.

Throat burning, he unwillingly remembered who he’d become under the influence of the Dragondew Mead, and the pulsing music that had filled the halls of The Fool's Folly. That wasn’t him.

The completion of their bond had even granted him a strange relief in at least dampening that frightening hunger for her—and the violent voracity that came after drinking from someone who wasn’t her.

It was why he’d encouraged her to take the dance with Rupert. Deep down, he’d wanted to know what it would be to watch her with another. To test himself, to know beyond the shadow of a doubt that he could stomach it.

Therein, Garin discovered, lay the problem. It changed nothing. He didn’t begrudge Lilac for taking the dance. He adored her just as much, desired her all the same. He did, however, find the mental image of tossing Rupert out the window for touching what was his, rather comforting.

His stomach growled, his heart aching in its slow, heavy beat. Most of all, he envied Rupert the ability to converse with Lilac about trivial matters so casually, without the lingering bloodlust or worry over an uncertain future.

What did that feel like?

What was it to be human? Twenty-something years with warm blood and a quick-beating heart had not been enough to answer this question. He’d been too preoccupied with throwing himself at the distraction he’d found in Alor’s group of misfits.

Come to think of it, his discomfort had begun at the countess’s unexpected mention of the duke’s son. He’d glared in Lilac’s direction, but all he saw was Bastion lying in the blood-streaked snow. The bodies of the other friends he’d lost to Laurent.

For decades he’d struggled with the change, unable to accept what he had become.

There was a period he had fucked and drank his way through the boroughs, reveling in many of the firsts the throes of war had stolen from him.

Finding The Fenfoss Inn was his solace, his second chance.

There, he devoted his endless time to rediscovery, learning and clinging to anything that reminded him of the humanity lurking deep beneath the surface: Their garden, his fae-rooted plants.

Assisting Lorietta in her kitchen, indulging when he simply couldn’t help himself—which was often, for his friend was the best chef he knew.

Nighttime strolls, which most recently led to Lilac’s balcony.

Staring at the forest that had become his fiercely protected home, face basked in moonlight.

Garin prided himself on the person he’d worked on becoming. He was a good man, or at the very least a chivalrous one.

Their thrall bond had undone all of it.

He thought the wine would help quell his anxiety, if not his unending hunger for her. He’d never been more wrong.

Jaw clenched, Garin watched Piper approach Lilac. Her handmaidens were close behind. They were going to leave. Lilac wanted to leave. Good. She was safe, especially with the redhead as much as he hated admitting it. The two had their own unique bond, whether they sensed it or not.

She was in good hands. He’d made a mistake in coming, but he’d left himself no choice?—

“Should I go after her?”

Garin nearly gave himself whiplash from how quickly he turned on Myrddin. He hadn’t even heard him approaching. He yanked his arm from the warlock’s grasp. “Shhh,” he spat, watching the doors swing shut and listening.

“I’m going to ruin everything,” Lilac was sobbing in the echoed chamber of the corridor. The thud of her heart had quickened. Her ungraceful footfall stomped left, toward the washroom.

“You won’t,” said Piper. “We won’t let you.”

“I will. I will . It is what I do. This is my fault, I’ve enthralled myself to him.

There are duties I am expected to uphold that I cannot stand by—not with him here.

I—” She broke off in a chest-heaving sob.

Lilac was panicking. Garin’s fingers twitched, itching to lace themselves between hers.

“I never wanted to in the first place, Piper. None of this is what I wanted.”

“I promise we’ll discuss this later,” Piper reassured her, sounding like she was speaking out of the side of her mouth. “Another time. Not here. ”

Her handmaidens struggled to keep up .

“Enthrall?” The soft, pixie-like voice of the kind-eyed brunette.

“Be quiet, Isabel,” the sterner one, Yanna, snapped.

Guilt and fear threatened to overwhelm him. Gods, he wished to turn off his hearing and heightened senses, block out their voices entirely. He shut his eyes as if it would help.

To his surprise, it did. Sort of.

“Even good acquaintances will have their disagreements,” Henri was chuckling.

“Dear, you’re red as a beet,” slurred Marguerite. “I’m sure it’s fine.”

“Disagreements?” It was the unpleasant red-haired woman from the foyer that seemed particularly fond of challenging Lilac. “She’s been dancing with Emma’s bastard son in front of the emperor’s emissary. She’s more than crossed him. Doomed our entire kingdom, I reckon.”

Garin’s eyes snapped open. He’d have none of that.

“A jig, maybe,” Garin called out, sounding unsure and strangled. Several people who weren’t already discreetly watching turned their attention to him, commenting on the emissary having too much to drink.

Henri made a noise of agreement and motioned at the band, and they began an upbeat jig, drowning out the voices.

Garin was grateful. He couldn’t stand to hear Lilac upset, or what she might confide to her friends—because he knew, in his darkest hour, that he would do anything to appease her.

That he’d fight tooth and nail to remain in her life, protect her, even if she wished otherwise.

I have made a choice. Her words were carved into his throbbing skull. He didn’t blame her. He was supposed to want this.

“Shall I intervene?” pressed Myrddin.

“Piper’s there. There’s no need.” Garin tugged at his collar, fingers fumbling as he unbuttoned it.

He was sweating. Had he drank too quickly?

Alcohol usually hit him immediately—it did all vampires—yet all it had done was worsen his anxiety and make his stomach churn.

The fire in the hearth behind them seemed to grow brighter, the heat even scorching the back of his neck.

“Hell,” he grumbled, shrugging out of his fine coat from Herlinde and letting it fall to the floor.

He’d paid in blood for it but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Here, why don’t you have some more.” Myrddin leaned over him to snatch the pitcher, stumbling back. Disbelievingly, he tipped it over his palm. A single drop of burgundy spilled out. “You drank it all? Already?”

“I had to,” Garin managed, trying to distract himself from the nagging burning in his throat.

The punishing urge to follow Lilac. Hunt her down.

“The illusion on that blood worked perfectly. I didn’t know it was possible.

It’ll be revolutionary for…for—” The room began to spin slowly. Garin gripped the armrests.

He was glad Myrddin sent him out with his own pitcher under the glamor of water.

He could hardly concentrate on what Lilac had been saying without imagining sweeping her hair back and sinking his fangs into her.

He’d made a clear mistake that morning; despite how badly he wanted it to be true, maybe she wasn’t safest in his presence after all.

Myrddin scanned the room, starling when his frantic gaze falling on the half-full wine bottle. “Where did you get that?”

Garin couldn’t be bothered by the warlock’s pedantries. “If anyone goes to check on her, it will be me.” He made to get up, but slammed back down onto the throne. Reddish brown rope had appeared out of thin air, securing his wrists over his sleeves to the armrests.

“The bottle,” Myrddin said with a warning glare. “Where did you get it?”

“There,” Garin breathed, cocking his head to the boxes and bottles piled to their right. “Marguerite said we could help ourselves. They’re gifts from the attendees.” His stomach and throat were on fire. Garin’s hands balled into fists as he strained against the triple tied hawthorn rope.

“Put those fangs away,” growled Myrddin.

“I can’t.” He was losing control. He inhaled through his nose, willing himself to calm. His fangs throbbed against his lips, his feet and hands itching to move. “I can’t help it.”