Page 3

Chapter 2

H olding together the crumbling pieces of his family would be the death of Madan. Between Ariadne’s incessant search to escape the reality of her life and Azriel’s steady spiral into unmanageable malevolence, he was grateful he had one sibling he knew was well taken care of. Emillie, at least, had Alek to keep her safe so he could focus his efforts on keeping his half-siblings from descending into a pit of madness from which he could never retrieve them.

Something had broken in Azriel during his imprisonment in Algorath. Madan couldn’t pretend to understand the pain of his brother’s shredded bond. Not even Whelan’s explanations or shared feelings through the vinculum did it justice—not when Whelan had never suffered to the same extent as Azriel. Not when they’d never been as fully separated as his half-siblings.

Still, he never expected to see such loathing in Azriel’s eyes when looking at Kall. The two had barely spoken since they arrived in Auhla , though not due to Kall’s lack of trying. Again and again, the dhemon had attempted to start a conversation with Azriel—to explain everything that had happened between him and Ariadne. If the rift wasn’t mended quickly, Madan feared it would come to a swift and violent end.

Azriel and Kall had once been the best of friends. They trusted each other explicitly. When Kall rescued them from Ehrun’s attack in Laeton, their ties had only strengthened. Madan knew Azriel could count on the dhemon to have his back. To have Ariadne’s back.

Madan crossed the great hall to Kall after Azriel’s departure. The massive dhemon turned to him after accepting the silent apology from Madan’s half-brother and raised a questioning brow.

“Perhaps you should stop training with Ariadne for a while.” The words flew from Madan in the dhemon language before he had time to convince himself not to say them at all.

Kall dropped his gaze to the table, his jaw tightening before responding in kind, “I’ve tried to tell her, but she…she won’t hear it.”

With a sigh, Madan rubbed his temple. “I know. I think it would help, though.”

“She needs to train.” Kall stabbed a potato, his eyebrows lowering over his eyes. “I’d never try to get between them. I just want her safe. I couldn’t live with myself if Ehrun—”

“Wait.” Madan held up his hand and stared at Kall, mouth agape. “Is that why you offered to train her in Monsumbra? Do you blame yourself?”

The dhemon’s mouth turned down at the corners, and he shot a glare at Madan. “Wouldn’t you?”

“None of that was your fault.” Madan searched the hard lines of his face. “You know that, right? You could not have stopped Ehrun any more than Azriel or me or even the Crowe.”

Dropping the fork, tines still spearing the root vegetable, Kall shoved to his feet. He stepped out from the bench and made to leave before pausing and turning back. The dhemon brought his face close to Madan’s, the scars left by Ehrun casting sharp shadows across his silver-rimmed eyes as he hissed, “I should’ve killed him decades ago when I had the chance. I won’t make that mistake again.”

With that, the dhemon stalked out of the great hall in the direction of the front door, leaving his half-eaten plate behind. Madan watched his departure with mixed feelings. It’d never occurred to him the weight Kall had carried all those years. He’d never picked up any signs of distress over it, and Kall’s stoicism on the matter didn’t help.

Madan trailed after his friend, mind whirling. The dhemon clan leaders would be arriving not long after sunrise, and though they didn’t expect a grand welcome the moment they set foot in the keep, he’d spent the last week sorting dhemons, ex-prisoners, and even those two vampire lords into shifts to ensure someone would be awake at all hours. Kall would be there to greet them before heading to bed, and Gavrhil was charged with ensuring the guests’ needs were met during the daylight hours.

As such, he was free to return to his own room and rest before the events of the evening. Madan prayed Azriel had taken as much time to formulate his speech as his brother claimed. They needed a strong leader now more than ever. Any weakness would be sniffed out and used against them.

Up the first flight of stairs, then the second. He slipped into the room he and Whelan had claimed for themselves, much larger than what he had been accustomed to while growing up. In it, their huge bed sat across from the fireplace alight with blue flames courtesy of one of the several mages now residing in Auhla . Their huge copper tub stood near the covered windows, and the small couch near the hearth was stacked with books and papers taken from the Knoll Estate.

It was on the rug near the couch that he took up residence, sitting cross-legged as he pulled one book after another into his lap. He haphazardly flipped through the pages of the latest tome depicting the history of Valenul.

“What are you looking for this time?”

Not having heard the dhemon enter, Madan damn near jumped out of his skin at Whelan’s sudden voice behind him. A smile curled his lips after a beat as he turned to his partner.

The rest of Madan’s world might be a muddled mess, but there would always be one constant that kept him grounded: Whelan. His lover. His partner. His bonded mate. Though many argued over the term being reserved for only those bonds that are reciprocated, Madan knew in his heart they were mates no matter what anyone else said.

“I’m not certain,” Madan admitted, watching as Whelan locked the door behind him and stalked closer, a wicked gleam in his red eyes. An electric jolt shot through Madan’s body at the implication. “I’m sure I’ll know when I see it.”

A smirk curled the dhemon’s sensuous mouth. “Will you, now?”

Fuck . This would certainly ruin any research he had planned before going to bed.

Whelan crouched behind him, entwining his fingers into Madan’s hair and tilting his face back towards him.

He needed battle plans.

Their lips brushed together, gentle and teasing, before Whelan crushed a heavy, demanding kiss on his mouth.

He needed knowledge of how to rebuild Valenul from the ground up.

Madan parted his lips for him, his breath hitching at the sudden onslaught of passion.

He needed to find a way to heal his brother’s bond.

Heat throbbed from low in his belly and his cock grew uncomfortable within the constraints of his trousers.

He needed—

With his only hand, Madan hooked his fingers around Whelan’s horn and held him close as their kiss deepened. He groaned and shifted his legs around the pile of books to face the dhemon, rising onto his knees for a better angle.

“You’re distracting me,” Madan breathed when Whelan pulled him closer.

Whelan responded with a hum. He kissed along Madan’s jaw, then down his neck and shoulder. Each touch of his lips sent another jolt of fire through him, and he rocked his hips forward, seeking the friction provided by Whelan’s body.

“I should be reading.” Madan kissed him again, whatever he wanted to say next vanishing from his mind. This connection was everything he needed—to remind him that even in the midst of despair, there remained something so achingly beautiful in his life.

“Then read,” Whelan said, his voice low and husky with the challenge. “Or…”

“Hmm?”

His mate’s fingers curled tighter in his hair, pulling his head back so he could draw his tongue up Madan’s throat. “Or you stay on your knees…”

“Fuck…”

“And I’ll show you exactly what you’re looking for.”

Madan swallowed hard. He watched from his exposed position as Whelan used one hand to unbutton his trousers. Within seconds, his cock sprang free, and the dhemon palmed himself, stroking long and slow. A wet bead appeared at the tip just before Whelan stood again, still working his hand.

“Come now,” Whelan said. “Show me how much you missed me tonight.”

A grin spread across his face as Madan licked the tip of his cock, relishing the saltiness there before sliding his lips around his thick length.

Whelan breathed a curse, watching him with half-lidded eyes. His lips parted as he used his grip on Madan’s hair to find a rhythm. And didn’t the dhemon look like a god, standing over him with his horns crowning his beautiful face?

Each steady pump had Madan adjusting to accommodate his mate’s size. Each slide of the dhemon’s cock over his tongue had him taking him deeper until there was no more room for him to possibly fit. He wrapped his fingers at the base and worked his full length with each suck.

“Gods,” Whelan breathed, his eyes closing as he savored the stroke of Madan’s mouth.

Yet before he finished, Whelan used his grip on Madan to pull him away, then slammed his lips down on his again. The kiss was hard. Consuming. Claiming.

“Let me taste you,” Madan demanded, his hand still working the dhemon’s hard length.

Another wicked glint sparkled in Whelan’s eyes. He unfastened Madan’s trousers next, taking his cock in his hand before cupping his balls and saying, “No. Ride me instead.”

Just the thought of it made Madan groan. He released his hold on Whelan and tugged his shirt off, then his mate’s, and ran his fingers along the broad, muscled expanse of his chest. The dhemon smirked, then hurried to and from their bed with a bottle of oil in hand. He brought his mouth to Madan’s again, stroking the oil onto his length.

As Whelan lay back on the rug, Madan kicked the trousers off his legs and straddled him. Leaning forward for the right angle, he released a long, low groan when Whelan eased in his cock. They paused. Again, their tongues entangled, giving Madan the moment to adjust to the sheer size of him.

Then he sat back, Whelan’s length working over that perfect spot inside him at the same time the dhemon gripped his cock. Madan rocked back and forth, the pleasure building with each stroke. Below him, Whelan moaned, his heady ruby gaze seeming to swallow him whole.

It wasn’t long before Madan felt that mounting pressure in his cock. Whelan bent his knees and thrust, forcing him to brace himself on the dhemon’s chest.

“Fuck!” Madan cried, unable to form a full sentence. “Whelan…”

“ Soht ,” Whelan hissed between his teeth, falling into the dhemon language as he repeated the word—yes, yes, yes. He continued in the same tongue, “Say it again.”

Madan met each thrust with vigor, Whelan’s fingers tightening on his cock and driving him into a frenzy. “Whelan…”

“Louder.”

He moaned, closing his eyes to focus on nothing but the feeling of the perfect dhemon beneath him. “Whelan!”

The fire in him built, growing hotter and hotter with each passing second. Whelan wrapped his free hand around the back of Madan’s neck and rolled him onto his back. He pounded into him, face buried in his neck as he groaned.

“Come for me, alhija ,” Whelan breathed, kissing his ear and throat.

As if Madan needed to be told. His body shattered in tandem with Whelan’s. They came apart in their respective climaxes, bodies tensing and releasing the pent-up pressure. Madan’s cock pulsed, leaving a warm pool between them.

They lay there on the rug beside his pile of books for a long while. Madan pushed Whelan’s hair back off his sweaty forehead and pressed a kiss, softer this time, to his mate’s lips.

Whelan smirked. “Now…what was that about reading?”

Emillie pulled her light cloak tighter around her shoulders. Summer did not reach the trenches of the Keonis Mountains the same way it had in the Valley. Where a clear day should have left the early night hours drenched in cool warmth, dusk instead brought with it a brisk chill that seeped into her bones.

A week. She had survived a week on her own in the wilderness. A week in terrain ruled by the vampires’ enemy: dhemons. That she woke another night and made her way out of the shallow cave—the second she had found since the first night on the run—was a miracle unto itself. That she had not succumbed to hunger, thirst, or retreat to be taken captive by Loren Gard was another thing entirely.

And as she foraged for another meager breakfast of mushrooms and berries, she struggled to banish the thoughts of a warm bed, hot meal, and general comfort. She could not give in to her desire for those qualities of a life now passed. For home.

She did not have a home. Not anymore.

Not for the first time, she crouched at the base of a tree and tucked her knees to her chest as though she could physically crush the emotions threatening to consume her. The berries, though delicious, did not satisfy her growing hunger. She thanked the books she read for having taught her which plants were best to eat. Though those dangerous to humans could not kill her, they could still make her horribly sick.

The last thing she needed was to find herself ill on her own in the mountains. With no one to help her, she had to find a way out of the endless expanse of evergreens and ferns, salal and huckleberries.

Where she wished to end up, Emillie had no idea. Traversing into Waer Province would have her captured and returned to Loren within a night. Turning south meant battling shorter nights and fewer places to hide from the sun. East would be just as dangerous as Valenul. The only place left for her would be to seek refuge amongst the high fae of L’Oden Forest.

So before she could wallow in the misery left to her by the recent deaths of her father and husband, the abandonment of Kyra, and ever-gnawing concern for Ariadne, Emillie stood, mounted the horse she had begun calling Bastien after the God of Rain, and started off again.

It had not taken long for her to stop caring when her dress caught on branches and twigs. The torn and dirty hem of it still bore the signs of Alek’s death. Splatters of dried, brown blood littered her waist and skirt. At first, she had hated it so much that she attempted to scrub it clean in a stream. That her sobs as the stains refused to budge had not called anyone traveling on the nearby road still surprised her.

Indeed, they surprised her each day when she cried herself to sleep, hidden in whatever natural outcropping of stone or makeshift shelter she could build.

Despite her fear of being found, she never strayed too far from the highway winding through the Keonis Mountains. It kept her on track, ever pushing west in search of freedom.

Emillie nudged Bastien onto the highway to get her bearings, following the wide road for some time. Moonlight seeped through the overlapping canopy overhead, and she tilted her face back to let it wash over her. What was the silvery light but a reflection of the sun? If she focused hard enough, she could almost feel the warmth the day once provided her when she lounged beside the pond at the Harlow Estate.

No. It would no longer be considered her family home, passed down through the generations as it was.

It would belong now to King Loren Gard.

She grit her teeth at the thought, forcing the image of her father’s lifeless eyes from her mind. Instead, it morphed into Alek’s. She could still see the fear flooding his gaze, turning it muddy as he pleaded with her to run . Still hear the desperation that she heeded his words.

Run . Hide .

They hit her with such force, it knocked the air from her lungs. She let the tears fall yet again as the sorrow crashed through her in waves. How would she ever recover from it all? How had Ariadne picked herself back up after her abduction? After Darien’s death?

The steady rhythm of horses’ hooves galloping hard broke through Emillie’s haze of misery. Her heart leapt into her throat, and she tugged on the reins to turn off the highway. Bastien responded, quick as ever, lunging toward the underbrush. They made it no more than a few feet into the shadows before the stallion squealed in alarm and lurched to a stop.

Then, despite Bastien’s efforts, his hooves slid through the mud as tendrils of ethereal fae magic wrapped around them both. It stroked a dormant part of her she had never before felt. The curiousness of it vanished as they were dragged back out onto the highway.

Emillie’s heart seized. Not only had the pursuants targeted her, but she knew how she looked. Dirty. Unkempt hair. Torn and bloodied dress. Worst of all…the webbing of blue veins gave her away as a Caersan woman all alone on the road. A Caersan woman who could not defend herself. A Caersan woman far from anyone who could hear her screams.

A small company of fae encircled her, speaking to one another in their lyrical language. Their dark clothing blended in with the shadows, and their sharp eyes seared into her like predators that had located their prey after a long hunt. One moved closer and came to a halt, his horse chuffing with indignation at the tension in the reins. His golden-red hair fell over his shoulders in waves as he tilted his head to study her with amber eyes.

“I heard about you,” he said after a moment, his accent thick, as though he spoke in cursive. “King Gard is terribly worried about your safety.”

His companions chuckled, continuing their circle to block any possible escape. One with straight, golden hair tied back from his face said something in their language, jerking his smooth-shaven chin in her direction and scanning her body in such a way that she felt exposed. Another round of laughter.

Praying to whichever god listened, she swallowed hard and said, “I believe you have me mistaken for someone else.”

“A pity,” the fae with fiery hair said. “If you cannot fetch us coin for your safe return, I suppose we’ll just have to make you useful in another way.”

Emillie could not breathe. She could not think. Her body tensed as they drew closer, throat tightening painfully when she forced the next words out, “I am no one of import. You will get no ransom for me.”

“Then no one will care if you disappear,” the man said, his amber eyes glinting.

It hit her, then, how right he was. How utterly alone in the world she had become. No family to speak of with Ariadne gone to a far-off land and Madan either dead or on the run. No friends who knew what had become of her. Not even Kyra would care—the Rusan had given up on her. On them.

A brown haired fae spoke, his voice lighter and more playful sounding than the others, though his dark eyes surveyed her with suspicion. The one in the center of the circle with her nodded at whatever the man said before refocusing on her and saying, “You’re lying.”

She shot the brunette a wide-eyed, fearful look. “By the gods, why would you say that?”

“Denen, there,” he explained with a nod to the brunette, “can taste lies.”

Taste lies? Certainly, fae had magic, but she had never heard of such a power. To taste a lie such as that seemed beyond impossible.

Emille swallowed hard, the burning in her throat turning each breath to fire. “No…”

“Oh, yes.” He grinned. “King Gard will pay handsomely for you, I’m certain.”

Before she could weigh the consequences, Emillie spurred Bastien into action. The stallion shot forward, between two of the circling fae, and down the highway. A laugh from behind was the only warning she got before that same powerful magic wrapped around her middle, yanking her from the horse’s back.

Landing hard on the muddy road, Emillie wheezed for breath, fingers scrambling to pry free whatever pinned her now to the ground. Nothing. Nothing but an invisible hold that she could not grip. Hot tears pricked her eyes, and she let out a shallow, painful sob.

The man with golden-red hair dropped to his feet from his horse, splashing mud across her face, and crouched beside her. “Now, now, Miss Harlow. Struggling will only make this worse for you.”

For you . As though it were enjoyable for him. Perhaps it was. Perhaps this was precisely what he looked forward to each time he awoke.

Yet before Emillie could open her mouth to speak next, something hard hit the side of her head. A flash of pain, then darkness descended.