Page 5

NEGOTIATE WITH A VILLAIN (TERMS & CONDITIONS APPLY)

ARABELLA

The shadow restraints vanished once we left Kazimir’s study. Practical villains conserved magic when muscle would suffice. Vex held my arm firmly as we wound through the Dark Lord’s fortress. Her grip suggested she could break bones as effortlessly as lighting a candle.

Cold now in my damp dress, I tugged the cloak closer around my shoulders, scowling at how it smelled so distinctly of him: winter storms and steel, undercut by the smoky tang of charred wood.

I felt a tiny spark of satisfaction remembering how Kazimir had flung that guard into the wall.

My father had never once defended me from leering eyes, so I found it disturbingly pleasant to witness someone take actual offense on my behalf.

Even if it was the Dark Lord. Even if I was still trying to figure out whether his anger had been about the guard’s stare or something else entirely.

We reached a corridor lit by floating orbs of pale blue light.

I glanced at a large mirror on the wall as we passed.

My hair hung in half-fallen braids, dust and smudges darkening my cheeks.

I looked every bit the frazzled heroine from a tragic ballad, bartered away to a monster for a handful of goats.

“Where exactly are you taking me?” I asked after several minutes of wordless trudging.

“The lord’s private tower,” Vex replied impassively.

“And we’re currently... where?”

“The Skyspire Citadel.” She turned up a spiral staircase leading into a tower.

I bit off a groan. My body already throbbed from my earlier attempts at magic and the day’s chaos. By the time we stopped on a landing, my calves burned. Vex remained stoic, barely winded.

She led me to an impressive door of iron and dark wood, produced a key, and swung it open.

Beyond lay a suite far more opulent than I had expected.

Maybe I’d anticipated a dank cell or a windowless chamber, something more in line with Kazimir’s grim reputation.

Instead, I stood in a circular room filled with lavish furniture, plush rugs, and a grand four-poster bed draped in burgundy silk.

My gaze snagged on the black roses. Vases brimming with them adorned nearly every surface. “Are those real?” I asked, stepping closer to one vivid cluster.

“Griffin’s pride and joy,” Vex answered with the faintest exasperation.

I reached out to brush a petal, only to jerk back at a sudden sting. A bead of blood welled up on my fingertip, and the flower’s petals appeared to shiver in response.

“They bite,” Vex warned me belatedly.

I sucked the drop of blood away and glowered at the malicious roses. “How... charming.”

“Griffin has enthusiastic notions about décor,” she remarked. “He thinks the future Dark Lady should be surrounded by intimidating symbols.”

I nearly laughed at the absurdity. “Should I start practicing my villainous cackle, or is there an orientation handbook?”

Vex crossed the room to open a second door. “The bathing chamber is through here. You’ll find fresh clothing waiting for you.” She turned to leave.

“My people,” I said, “what happened to them?”

Vex’s posture stiffened before she answered. “Your maid is home. Your guards and driver are too. Safe or not—that’s beyond my knowledge.”

Relief mingled with a stab of guilt that I couldn’t protect Agnes from whatever rumors would surely spread. At least she was free from this citadel.

Vex gestured at the main door. “I wouldn’t try to leave before Lord Blackrose arrives to set the wards. The stairs have protections. If you try them without permission, you’ll discover their defenses the hard way.”

“Wait,” I called as she made for the corridor. “Who are you?”

She paused, her expression unsettling in its perfect composure. “I’m the Steward of Skyspire.” Then she slipped into the hall and turned the key in the lock behind her.

Steward of Skyspire, I mused drily, finding the title painfully inadequate for the woman who’d manhandled me up endless flights of stairs with the efficiency of a seasoned soldier. Definitely more than just Kazimir’s glorified assistant.

I went to the nearest tall window, half expecting to see a courtyard or walls.

Instead, I found whirling storm clouds below me.

The fortress hovered in midair, tethered to nothing but jagged rocks floating in the same swirling darkness.

Occasionally, streaks of violet lightning illuminated other shards suspended in the storm.

At least one of the rumors about the Dark Lord was true.

“Well,” I muttered, “that complicates things.”

I tore my gaze away and wandered deeper into my gilded prison.

The bathing chamber was pure indulgence: a huge sunken tub, brass fixtures, and an array of soaps that smelled of lavender and spice.

The dressing chamber next to it brimmed with dresses in rich jewel tones, nightgowns trimmed in delicate lace, and even some riding attire.

All in my size. All far more extravagant than anything I owned back home.

Exhaustion dragged at my limbs, so I stripped and sank into the tub. The hot water was an undeniable comfort, but as I scrubbed away the grime of the day, the deeper worry settled in my mind.

Why me?

Kazimir Blackrose had chosen the daughter of a financially ruined noble house. Our estate was nearly worthless. My father’s favor was a joke among the gentry. But there was one thing in my family that still held value?—

My mother’s bloodline, traced back to the First Hero.

It was the only thing that made me valuable to someone like Kazimir Blackrose.

But what could he want with heroic blood?

I didn’t like the answers my mind supplied.

Dread pooled in my stomach as I imagined vile rites, forced heirs warped by dark magic, or arcane bargains where my veins would be drained to fuel some monstrosity.

I let myself shiver at the thought instead of trying to banish it. Information was power, after all. Now that I knew Kazimir needed more than just my compliance, I could attempt to negotiate. If I held any leverage at all, it was that special lineage he required.

When I finished bathing, I selected a simple forest-green gown from the wardrobe. It slid over my skin as if tailored precisely to my measurements. I left my hair loose to dry in waves, then returned to the main room.

A timid knock drew me to the door. A young man—he couldn’t have been older than sixteen—stood there balancing a tray piled with food.

“My lady,” he mumbled. “I brought your meal.”

I ushered him inside, watching as he set out roast chicken, bread, and vegetables on a low table near the fireplace.

“Thank you,” I said. “What’s your name?”

He stared at the floor. “Pip, my lady.”

I thanked him for the meal, and he fled. Despite the knot of anxiety in my belly, I realized I was ravenous and devoured every bite. I’d just finished mopping up the last of the gravy with a piece of bread when the lock clicked and the door swung open without warning.

Firelight hissed lower, and shadows clawed across the rugs an instant before Kazimir strode through the doorway.

He wore a fitted jacket of glossy black scales—dragonskin?

—that shimmered darkly in the firelight.

His eyes, just as black, raked over me from head to toe.

A thin red line on his throat marked where I’d cut him earlier.

He flicked a glance at the folded cloak on the chair, then at me. “The green suits you better than that.”

“Your minions have interesting taste,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant. “Though I’m grateful they didn’t force me into a dress covered in black roses. I barely survived the ones in the vases.”

His mouth tightened, but he prowled farther inside, one fingertip grazing the petals of a black rose. The bloom folded beneath his touch. “Griffin’s been reminded of his... excesses. He tends to forget that not everyone appreciates carnivorous flora.”

“Poor Griffin. He’s probably sobbing into his man-eating roses.”

Kazimir ignored the jab. “I came to set the wards. They’ll keep you in this suite unless I grant you passage beyond.”

“And here I thought you’d come to properly propose.” The words slipped out before I could stop them. I trailed my finger over a velvet-covered chair. “But I suppose that would be too traditional for the Dark Lord.”

He arched an eyebrow, clearly amused. His fingers flexed once at his side. “Traditional? You’d prefer I drop to one knee?”

“Well, you did kidnap me,” I pointed out, crossing my arms. “I guess some semblance of courtesy wouldn’t kill you.”

For an instant, wariness flickered over his features. He stepped back, surveying me with those cold, beautiful eyes.

Then, to my utter astonishment, he dropped into a graceful kneel.

But there was nothing submissive about the motion—if anything, he seemed more dangerous like this.

Muscles tightened beneath the dragonskin as though measured violence might spring from that graceful crouch.

His gaze lifted to mine, dark lashes framing a lethal smirk as he took my hand in his.

“Lady Arabella Evenfall, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?” he asked in a low voice. “I promise to cherish your power, and to make every submission worth the risk of wanting more.”

His question rumbled through the room, bass notes vibrating in my spine even after the words faded.For one reckless heartbeat I wanted to lean into that velvet voice.

I swallowed the impulse. “That may be the worst proposal I’ve ever heard.”

He stood in a swift motion, maintaining his grip on my hand. Leather and scale whispered as he rolled his shoulders. The air shifted, carrying that same scent of winter storms and charred wood across my skin. “List your previous offers, and I’ll decide whether I should be insulted or amused.”