Page 42 of Lord of Ruin (The Age of Blood #2)
Mel dove back in, opening her maw wide before she drove her teeth into his flesh. The King didn’t even flinch, and Shan stepped close enough that she could hear each squelching slurp.
“She’s taking to it even better than I hoped she would,” the King murmured, uncaring that she was right there in his lap, listening.
Or perhaps not. There seemed to be precious little human about her, though, so far, the only physical difference was in those fangs.
The sketches the King had shown her revealed the monstrosity yet to come, and Shan itched to know how many more of these little sessions were needed to tip Mel over the edge.
“How often are you feeding her?”
“Daily,” the King confirmed. “And she wants more with each passing feeding. It shouldn’t be long now.”
Shan licked dry lips. “Forgive me, Your Majesty, but is it wise for you to give that much blood?”
His gaze flicked up to hers, emerald eyes softening. “That is kind of you, Shan, but there is no need to worry. My blood is the strongest, and we do not have time to waste.”
Ah, there it was—just a hint of frustration. The opening she needed. She flitted to his side, already formulating the story she would spin. “I just came from Lady Lynwood’s salon, and young Sir Morse had the most intriguing things to say.”
“I am not surprised,” the King said, before she could continue, “and I am glad you brought this to me. This is useful, but—ah, a moment.” He glanced down at the creature in his lap, making gentle shushing noises as he pulled her off his arm. “Enough for now, Mel.”
The girl whined, deep in her throat, chasing after the wound she had made.
But the King only raised it to his own lips, licking the blood clean.
Shan could feel the burst of magic as the skin knitted together, smooth and unblemished.
Despite the way he fed her his very blood, his very power, he allowed no trace of her to remain—unworthy of the temple that was his body with all its flaws.
The King eased her back, his grip firm but not bruising, as he helped Mel to a sitting position.
A cloth appeared in his hands, as he wiped her face clean; she had been a messy eater, blood spilling down her chin to her throat, but the King was too meticulous to let a drop of it get away.
There was too much power in that blood, and he’d have been a fool to risk even the smallest speck of it.
Mel sat through her cleaning with a surprising amount of restraint, though her eyes did not move from the space just below the King’s hand, as if she were just waiting for the chance to press back against his wrist.
She probably was, but the girl was too well trained by now. She would wait for the King’s permission, hanging on his every word like a hound.
“Take her back to her cell, will you, Shan?” The King stood, clenching the cloth in his hand, stained a deep maroon. “I need to clean up.”
“Of course,” Shan said, slipping to Mel’s side. “The muzzle?”
“No longer necessary.” He glanced back at the girl, his tone taking on just the slightest edge of authority. “Right, Mel?”
The girl slid off the table, lurching into a particularly clumsy attempt at a curtsy. “Of course not, my lord,” she slurred, with all the poise of someone who was deep at the bottom of a bottle, and Shan had to wonder just how potent the King’s blood was.
“Come along then.” Shan pressed her hand into the small of Mel’s back, and the girl blearily followed her gentle instructions, humming a tune to herself as she swayed.
There was something almost innocent about it, the fear that had once hung over Mel vanished as the changes rolled through her, as the power became more than a promise.
Mel went willingly back into her cell, and Shan wondered just how badly they had broken this girl, and why she felt so little shame over it.
Yes, she had been a coward and criminal, used to flashing her tears to get what she wanted, but they were making her into something little more than a pet, ready to hunt and come to heel.
They were doing it kindly, gently, but thoroughly—and as Mel looked up at her with that guileless smile, Shan felt a euphoric rush that went straight to her head.
She met the King across the room, where he stood in front of a recently lit incinerator, a smaller scale one than what she had in the basement of her own home.
No, this wasn’t for bodies, but for the smaller detritus of their work.
The fabric he used to wipe away the mess was already inside, shriveling away into dust and ash, but the King wasn’t done.
His slim fingers slipped to where his shirt was tucked into his trousers, pulling it free, a tease of pale skin before he ripped it over his head, revealing the long expanse of his back.
Shan knew she should turn away, this was too intimate, too personal.
It felt like a transgression that she should be punished for, but she could not stop staring.
There were scars there too, twisted and knotted, not as numerous as on his arms, not as deliberate as their Blood Working demanded.
No, these scars were wide and vicious things, the remnants of a flogging that had left him marked forever.
Why had he not healed them? He had the power, the skill, the opportunity.
“I can feel you staring,” the King said, feeding his shirt to the fire. The flames caught, flaring up to catch his profile in the harsh light. He looked so terrible and untouchable, and Shan felt as helpless as a moth drawn to the candle.
“My apologies,” Shan said, forcing herself to whirl away as her heart beat unsteadily in her chest. “Please forgive my presumption.”
“No, Shan, I am not angry.” The King reached out, grabbing her by the shoulder. He wasn’t wearing his claws, bare fingers against the warmth of her skin where her dress dipped to reveal smooth flesh. “I know what it looks like. I know what you’re thinking—what everyone thinks.”
He was close enough that she could feel his breath on her skin, the warmth coming off his body as strong as the incinerator behind them. A scalding embrace that would leave her utterly destroyed, and yet, she longed to melt into it.
“But, I will tell you the truth, Shan,” he murmured, his hands trailing down to settle on the curve of her waist, holding her as tight as any binding.
“Because I think you will understand. Once, a long time ago, before Aeravin was born, I had to fight for my right to exist as a Blood Worker, in a time when people thought we were monsters for the magic we were born with. And I endured such terrible things, torments that I refuse to let my people ever experience again. So, I wear these marks with pride, Shan, for how far I’ve come. ”
His fingers pressed into her skin, hard enough to leave his own marks, even through the fall of her clothes. His strength was unmistakable—and oh, how he bruised so casually, so easily, like she was his to mar.
“I wear them so I never forget what it was like to suffer.” He shifted, slightly, his mouth brushing against her ear. “Do you understand me, Shan?”
“I do,” she exhaled, the honesty stronger than any balm she had ever known.
No, Aeravin hadn’t scarred her in the same way that her King had been, but she still carried deep wounds, buried somewhere beneath her skin.
Aching pains that would never heal, the suffering of cruelties that had shaped her just as much as they had harmed her.
And, because she was strong enough to bare it, to remember it, she would take every one of the cruelties done to her and allow it to make her stronger. No matter how much it hurt.
She closed her eyes, blurry as tears threatened. “I understand.”
“I knew you would, my brilliant girl.”
The King let go, and she swayed, just for a moment, before turning back around.
He had already grabbed another shirt, had pulled it on and was setting himself to rights, as if the moment they just shared had never happened at all. “Anyway, about Lady Lynwood’s?”
Right. Shan took a deep breath, recounted the brief facts that he needed to know—the tension that threaded through his people, the seeds Amelia had begun to plant, the not-quite-promises that Edward had made.
And through it all, the King listened attentively, hanging on her every word.
It was so strange, approaching it from this angle, like she was the bird and he was the Sparrow.
Their roles were far more complicated than that, though, but old habits die hard.
It was almost a relief, honestly, to be the one not to have to make the decision, waiting on guidance from someone with more experience and knowledge than she could ever hope to have.
“That Morse boy,” the King muttered, with no fair amount of derision.
“Always putting his foot in his mouth. Still, that insight into Lady Morse’s feelings is helpful, considering—” He trailed off, glancing back to the cell where Mel rested, curled up on her cot and deeply asleep.
“Well, that is a bridge we can burn when we get to it. For now, Amelia Dunn. Tell me what you think about her.”
Shan blinked at the sudden shift in conversation, but she was almost used to it by now. “Clever, driven, helpful.”
She hated to admit it, and would never have thought it would be so, even a year ago, but Amelia was proving herself to be a formidable ally.
“I’d rather have her on my side than against it.
She has an astute understanding of our current political situation, and a willingness to embrace unorthodox solutions. ”
“Hmm. I had hoped so. She appears to have inherited her father’s acumen, let us hope she surpasses him in wisdom.
” Catching her hand, he brought it to his lips, polite, chaste, formal—but still, it made her blood warm.
“Thank you, Shan. It’s been a while since I had a Royal Blood Worker who was skilled in both academics and politics. Your input is greatly appreciated.”
“Of course,” Shan said, dropping instinctively into a deep curtsy. “I aim only to excel.”
“And that you do.” He pulled her to her feet, smiling indulgently. It was different from the way he looked at Mel—there, she was as beloved pet, a tool to be used. But in this, Shan almost felt like a co-conspirator. Like a trusted counsellor, though she knew that was not true.
He was playing her, as he always did, but what she would give to believe it, if only for a moment.
“For now, I have work to prepare,” the King said, stepping away in a clear dismissal. “If only all of my appointees were as diligent as you, but alas, I fear I must step in.”
Shan’s stomach filled with ice as she processed the words, knowing the target of his ire, if not the particulars. They had both risen at the same time, but she had given terribly little thought to Samuel of late, too caught up in the needs of her own role.
But he was strong enough to handle it, she had to believe that.
Because if he wasn’t, then she had failed him—and she couldn’t stand to fail another person she cared about.