Page 73 of Lord of Ruin (The Age of Blood #2)

Chapter Forty

Samuel

T he silence in the room was oppressive, a smothering weight that Samuel choked on.

But despite the way he turned the conversation over and over in his head, there was nothing he could find to make it better.

Words were empty, especially because it wasn’t his role to apologize.

Shan had been a right asshole, and as much as he wanted to comfort Bart, there was nothing he could say.

It didn’t matter that she was self-destructing, it didn’t matter that this was a disaster moving in slow motion.

This had been unfathomably cruel, and Samuel did not know if he could ever forgive it.

The man slumped against Anton, who held him tight, like if he eased up even the slightest bit, Bart would fall apart in his arms. Bart hadn’t stopped crying since he arrived, not grand, gulping sobs, but a steady stream of silent tears.

Not a grand reckoning, but a silent fissure, the bedrock crumbling to dust beneath their feet.

Isaac returned to the room, carrying a tray with a full tea service as well as a bottle of bourbon, both sorely needed.

He laid them on the table where they had been finalizing the raid on the Blood Bank, a collection of hand-drawn sketches as they discussed the final details.

Rough schematics that Isaac had provided, memories from his time as Royal Blood Worker.

A list of the Guard, which Samuel had copied from his own office.

Plans of how Anton, Maia, and Alaric would be working the crowds outside as the chaos was sure to spread.

The risk was immense, particularly for Isaac, but it was a solid plan. All they needed to do was enact it.

Samuel stepped forward to help Isaac, adding cream and sugar and a dollop of whisky to each glass. “The others?” he whispered, not to draw the attention of Anton and Bart.

“Gone home to rest before tomorrow,” Isaac replied, just as quietly.

Samuel let out a sigh of relief. Alaric and Maia had ducked out of the room as the conversation had turned intensely personal, and Samuel was glad they were kind enough to give them the space they needed to process this.

When the raid was over, when the next part began to roll out, then they would deal with the problem of the Royal Blood Worker. But for tonight, they could mourn.

Isaac passed Bart a teacup, the man accepting it with a terse nod. They stood there, looking at each other, a moment frozen in time, before Bart laughed, soft and helpless. “How did we end up here?”

“I don’t truly know,” Isaac responded. His smile was brittle, and Samuel stepped to his side, finding his hand and weaving their fingers together—so much easier, without the claws.

Without the prickliness of Shan’s affection, carefully measured out in public, only freely given in private.

Ever mindful of the roles they played and the weight of the eyes that followed them throughout every moment of their lives.

He shouldn’t have preferred this, he should have understood the impossible situation of Shan’s life, especially after stepping into it himself.

But he was so tired of being understanding.

“Strange bedfellows indeed,” Anton added. “The Lost Aberforth and Isaac de la Cruz. I wouldn’t have believed it if you told me a year ago. But I guess my sister wrought her own downfall.”

“Anton, please,” Samuel interrupted, but Isaac stopped him with a squeeze of his hand.

“No, love, he is right.” Isaac said it gently, like he was afraid that the slightest injury would send him fracturing into a million pieces, never to be made whole again.

Samuel wasn’t sure if Isaac was wrong about that, but he was so tired of being treated like he was fragile. He was stronger than they realized, and holding out hope for Shan did not make him weaker. “Perhaps we—”

“We’ve tried,” Anton cut in, the dismissal flat and final.

It was somehow worse coming from Anton, her brother—her twin.

The one who had shared a womb with her, had walked in her shadow every step of the way.

“I’ve been trying for far longer than you realize, but Shan…

she has made her choices, and every time she makes the wrong one. ”

“Not always,” Samuel whispered, “she chose me, once.”

A brief flicker of hope in a time of fear, when the noose had been closing around their necks. Just as it was now, but…

“I know,” Anton conceded, “and I had hoped that was the beginning of something new, but I’ve been fooled before. I won’t make that mistake again. I—” His voice broke, a crack in his carefully crafted facade, the easy-going rake revealed to be nothing more than a boy. Hurting. Bleeding.

“I can’t let myself be fooled again,” Anton whispered, clenching his fist at his side, wound tight like a wire about to snap.

Bart sat up straighter, pressed a tender kiss to Anton’s temple. “You can’t convince Shan of anything, Samuel. She’s always been this way, so convinced of her talent and her world view that nothing will shake it, not until she breaks herself.”

Samuel turned away, hiding the shake in his hands by pressing them hard against the table, pretending to scan their plans for tomorrow’s attack one more time. He hated knowing that Bart was right, that they all were right.

But he would hold onto the foolish hope that when Shan did crash and burn, he would be able to reach out and pull her back from the brink.

Because she had spent her entire life determined to save others, whether they needed it or not, so perhaps all she needed was for someone to save her.

Or maybe he was the biggest fool of all, holding onto a hope that would not dim.

Maybe he was the perfect match for Shan in his endless audacity.

Only time would tell, but first, there was work to be done.

And as the others whispered softly behind him, he made a silent vow, that no matter what the morning brought, he would always be there for her.

Because she needed someone to have faith in her, and that much, at least, he could give.

The morning dawned bleak and grey, low clouds settling over the capital as the promise of a winter squall loomed.

Samuel stared out of the window, looking at the Blood Treasury in the distance, watching the moody sky threaten a mix of snow and rain, a hellish slush that would line the streets slick and icy.

Not a worry to Isaac, who would cut through the skies on wing, his monstrous transformation immune to the extremes of the weather.

Just like Mel was, but that was not something he could think about, not now. That was a complication for later, a worry that was beyond the scope of his role. He had one task and one task alone, and he squared his shoulders and turned away from the city.

The room was basic, bare—another of Anton’s little safe houses, this one hardly used—just an empty floor, ready for Samuel to lay a blood ward.

A pocket of protection to seal away Isaac’s lower half while his upper half wreaked the havoc they needed.

Havoc that Samuel was not simply allowing, but actively abetting.

He swallowed the guilt and shame down, because he had agreed to do this, knowing full well what he was agreeing to.

Isaac stood across the room, shedding the layers of his clothes, clothes that would not survive the change, folding them and neatly setting them aside. A strange dissonance, the moment of everyday routine before the slaughter. Almost enough to make Samuel forget why they were here.

Isaac stepped forward, naked skin golden and warm in the flickers of witch light around them, his skin flawless and unblemished, coated in a thin layer of dark hair.

Everything about Isaac was lean and masculine, from the clench of his stomach to the breadth of his thighs, a pillar of strength forged in fires that would have melted lesser men.

Samuel wanted to fall to his knees, press his mouth to the soft swells of Isaac’s breasts, follow the trail of hair with open-mouthed kisses down to the mound between his legs and suck the plump cock into his mouth, worshipping the man until he came on his tongue. But Isaac had him here for a reason.

He needed a Blood Worker—and so a Blood Worker was what he would get. As ill taught and ill prepared as he was.

Samuel grabbed the dagger they had brought for this exact purpose: a simple thing, a thin, sharp blade and a light handle, lacking all the ornamentation or filigree that he was used to, after living among the Blood Workers for so long now.

It still sat uneasily in his grip, because no amount of practice would ever make him used to this.

Turning back, he found Isaac sitting in the center of the room, legs crossed and head tipped down.

His eyes were closed, his breathing deep, a sort of light meditation as he prepared himself for what was to come.

Samuel let him be, moving into place, before he slashed his palm open with the edge of the blade, letting the blood well and pool.

A low growl startled him, nearly causing him to drop the dagger, but it was only Isaac.

Watching him with a forbidding glare, the pupils growing to take over the whole of the eye.

A snarl caught in his throat as sharp fangs descended, tongue stretching past his lips, not quite inhuman yet, but still scenting the air.

As hunger overtook him, transforming him slowly in fits and starts—but Samuel didn’t fear him. He knew he was in no danger from Isaac, even when his hunger drove him to sip from his body, even when the man he loved was subsumed into the beast of legend.

Tipping his hand, he let the collected blood spill, dropping on the floor like paint. Isaac rose to his feet, turning with him, lips pulled back in a half-snarl as Samuel circled around until the lines almost joined. “Now.”