Page 47 of Lord of Ruin (The Age of Blood #2)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Shan

T he Guards let Shan into the King’s personal wing, the grand doors closing behind with an ominous thud.

Chills ran down the length of her spine as she heard the doors lock—she understood that it was standard protocol, that the King’s safety would always come first. It wasn’t a threat or a punishment.

But that didn’t do anything to calm the anxiety that spiked, sharp and jagged like glass, with the unsettling knowledge that she was trapped. She ignored the warnings, the instinctual primal sense of self-preservation, holding her head high as she moved forward, looking for the one who invited her.

The King wasn’t in the grand living space, the low couches and settees looking pristine and untouched.

She moved down the hallway, past a series of closed doors and fine art, heading towards his study—the private study closed off from the rest of Dameral, a sacred space that she still wasn’t sure how she had gained access to.

But she still remembered that hazy afternoon, leaning close to him, feeling the warmth of his power washing over her as he showed her ancient sketches in his own hand, detailing myths and monsters come to life.

Now, she knew it all to be true, not simply possibility but reality, but that glimmering afternoon felt like it had been the start of something new.

She still wasn’t sure if it was something she should fear. But it was her life, whether she wanted it or not. Fixing a cruel little smile on her face, she entered the study, coming to a sudden stop as she took in the sight in front of her.

A version of the man that was far less precise, far less put together, than the liege she was used to serving, another facet of himself that he was revealing one by one, as steady as the passing of the days.

He didn’t even look up from his work, standing over the desk as he stared down at the papers sprawled in front of him.

He was dressed in only trousers and a simple shirt, his frame lean and lithe in the early light.

His face was unshaven, the beginnings of a beard calling attention to the strong line of his jaw, and his hair rested loose and tousled, not slicked back and precise against his scalp.

His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing forearms that were hard and lean, crisscrossed with harsh scars, unmistakable but not as harsh as the other wounds he carried.

Shan recognized it for what it was—a reminder of where he had started, and how far he had come.

Of everything that he had given for his country, for people like him, for magic that was feared across the world.

And there was a part of her, dark and vengeful, that respected him for it.

She raised her gaze to find him staring at her, lips twisted into a small smirk as he looked at her looking at him. Something ineffable hung in the air, heady and undefinable, and Shan couldn’t help the fissure of hunger that curled through her.

A betrayal in miniature, a wrongness that should leave her shamed, but the vicious and greedy thing that she was, all she could feel was an endless craving.

“Good morning, Shan,” the King drawled, voice dark and slow like syrup, still carrying some of the rasp of morning. “Thank you for joining me.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” she replied, dropping into a proper curtsy, only for him to laugh softly.

“Please, I think we’re far beyond such things.” The warmth of his words dripped down her spine, burning like the drip of hot wax down a candle. “You can call me Tristan, at least when we are alone like this.”

“I…” Shan hesitated, thrown for once by the invitation.

Despite the way her role as Royal Blood Worker had drawn her deeper into his circle, had her spending hours upon hours with the man.

But it had always been professional, strict boundaries around the roles they played, a carefully constructed dance where Shan knew every step.

This was not that. This was a dissolution of all those carefully constructed rules, and Shan was standing on the edge of free fall. And the King just tilted his head, daring her to jump, making her believe that he wouldn’t let her crash against the jagged rocks below.

No, he’d catch her—he would lift her to new heights. Allow her to fulfill her darkest potential, without once judging her for it.

It was a sweet dream, a tempting manipulation.

For that’s what it had to be. The Eternal King did not do anything without calculation, allowed nothing if it wouldn’t benefit him.

He would twist her into something as dark as the vampire they created, but if she had the courage to chase such power, wouldn’t it be worth it?

But if she went that route, she would—forever and for always—lose Samuel, the best and most righteous man she had ever known.

Shatter the thin trust that bound her and Isaac, confirming every doubt he had about her.

If she gave into this slow, delicate seduction the King wove around her, soft as silk and just as luxurious, she would be shattering what was left of her heart.

So, she swallowed her ambition like the bitter fruit it was, poisonous and sour on her tongue.

“As you say, Tristan,” she murmured, thrilling her words with just a hint of breathlessness, meeting calculation with calculation. She could play these games, could lead him to believe she was falling. He might be Eternal, but she would not let herself be beat.

Not at the games she had been playing and perfecting since she was old enough to take her first steps.

“Excellent.” He clasped his hands together. “Let me call for some tea and then we can get started.”

He gestured towards the little alcove where they had sat last time, and Shan drifted towards the chair, her hand landing on its back as she stared out the window.

It had started to snow since she had arrived at the palace, the thick flakes falling slow and fat.

She had never seen a true snowfall, not with the Dameral’s location on the coast. Just little squalls like this, soft flurries dancing through the skies before they hit dirty cobblestones or the harsh waves of the sea, vanishing as they touched down.

Maybe when this was all over, when a semblance of peace was found, she and Samuel could travel. Visit the Aberforths’ estate in the country, far from the capital. Experience what a true winter was like, maybe even find a few days of peace.

The King reappeared at her side, holding out a steaming cup of tea, already doused with just a splash of cream to smooth the bitterness. Exactly as she liked it.

When had the King picked up little things like that? What else had he noticed about her, and how much of it was her many masks, and how much of it was the truth of her? Raw, uncertain, and anguished.

“Penny for your thoughts?” the King asked.

She was so tired of the constant manipulations, of second-guessing every action and intention. So perhaps that was why the truth fell so easily from her lips as she reached for the cup, wrapping her fingers around its warmth. “I’m thinking about a holiday.”

The King laughed, low and slow, offering a half-smile that looked far more natural than any other expression he had ever worn around her. There was something about it that reminded her of Samuel, of the way he looked when he was fully at ease, untroubled around the few people he trusted.

If she relaxed her eyes, she could almost see it, almost pretend that she was with a different man entirely.

“It has been a trying time, hasn’t it?” He slouched against the wall, arms crossed over his chest as his rested against the dark wooden panels. “Perhaps when this is all over, I can spare my Royal Blood Worker for a bit. Perhaps I can spare myself some of this drama.”

The wistfulness in his voice took her by surprise. “It gets to you too?”

He rolled his eyes, and the gesture made him look so human, not a king at all.

“Of course it does. It’s something that few people even attempt to understand, the weight of a crown.

Do you think I relish it? The pain we have to cause to keep everyone safe?

The cruelty of enforcing justice, fair to all? ”

“I had thought,” Shan said, carefully, still driven to speak the truth even if she couched it in pretty words, “that you had not thought of it at all. You have always seemed so far beyond it.”

He huffed, both disappointed and tired, but not angry.

A little impressed, if anything. Just like the first time he had brought her into his confidence, when a little bit of careless honesty earned that first spark of approval.

“I suppose that is fair. Over time, the mask I wear has felt less and less like a mask. I can’t even recall the last time I took it off.

But you know what that is like, don’t you? ”

Swallowing hard, she glanced away, watching the snowflakes fall. “I’m sure I don’t understand what you’re implying, Your Majesty.”

“Tristan,” he repeated, insistent.

Her voice sounded strange to her own ears, the familiarity of it heady and rich, like wine on her tongue. “Tristan,” she acknowledged, glancing back just in time to see that half-smile again.

“And I think you know exactly what I mean,” the King continued.

“I think you know exactly what it means to wear all different kinds of masks, to control what people think of you at all times. The power that comes with it, the freedom. My dear Lady LeClaire, my clever little Sparrow…” he paused, nearly rasping the next words, “my incomparable Shan.”

His praise cut her, soft and sharp as a blade that left her flayed open, her beating heart exposed before him. “I have only done what I needed to to survive.”

“And you’ve done more than that, my girl,” the King said, reaching out to take the cup from her shaking hands, the tea spilling over the edges as he placed it on the table, as he returned to cup her cheek.