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Chapter 3

W aiting was, by far, the worst part of any coup. Loren did not have the patience to merely sit about and rule a kingdom—a true kingdom now—from the comforts of his home. His palace. His throne .

Yet that was precisely what he did. The grand sitting room of the massive house once called the Harlow Estate had been rearranged. Wooden chairs with plush seats and backs remained along the walls, but every other piece of furniture had been removed. On the far side of the long room from the large fireplace, a low dais had been raised, and upon it sat the high-backed, golden throne he had demanded be brought in.

It was on that throne that Loren sat, receiving members of the Society as they arrived to swear fealty. Each bowed or curtsied low until given leave by him to stand erect. Each repeated those fine words, first spoken by the traitorous Alek Nightingale: I pay my allegiance to you … may you strike me down …

And so he had. Alek’s death, though unfortunate, had been necessary. If he had not succumbed to the soldiers, he would have suffered a far more terrible fate for attempting to disobey a direct order from his King. If nothing else, his demise spurred the Lords and Ladies of his new court to hurry to ensure they did not face a similar fate.

As he dismissed another Caersan family from the outer reaches of the Central Province, Loren leaned back to watch their departure. The next visitor sent a jolt of surprise through his chest. A spark of hope.

Colonel Nikolai Jensen bowed as he entered before stepping forward and returning to the prone position, awaiting Loren’s permission to straighten again. The crimson uniform, cleaned and pressed into crisp lines, told Loren that the officer had stopped to bathe and change prior to seeing him.

A sour tang crept through his gut. If Nikolai had been successful in retrieving his bride-to-be, he would have come immediately to the palace rather than take the time to ensure his brown hair was so perfectly coiffed.

“At ease,” Loren said, his fingers gripping the throne’s armrest. “And speak.”

“Gen—” Nikolai winced and dropped his gaze, face paling. “Your Majesty. May I begin by giving you my heartfelt congratulations. I am most pleased to return to such joyous news as your coronation.”

Loren’s jaw tightened. “I would like a full update, Colonel. None of this preening.”

“I have given your payments from Desmo Melia Tagh to the Crown Treasurer.” Nikolai looked up now, his throat bobbing. He kept his hands behind his back—a tell-tale sign of a soldier riddled with nerves. This did not bode well for him.

Loren leaned forward with suspicion. “What of the prisoner? Of my fiancée? Of Eastwood Province?”

Nikolai sucked in a shaking breath, his mouth twisting. “I saw no sign of Miss Harlow in Algorath. In fact, I heard no whispers of a Caersan woman in the city at all. As for the prisoner…”

Oily displeasure curled through Loren’s gut. The Colonel was trying to hide something, or at the very least, coat the news by twisting it into something more palatable. That his most loyal officer would withhold any information from him to save his own skin lit a fire in Loren’s blood.

“Speak, Colonel.”

“The prisoner has escaped along with the other criminals with whom he resided.” Nikolai dropped his gaze again, his back rod-straight. “Desmo Melia Tagh is dead. A hunt continues in the Saalo Desert for them all, but they have not been located.”

Hissing a curse, Loren shoved to his feet and paced the dais. He flexed and unflexed his fists to keep from strangling the officer before him. “Tell me Madan Antaire is dead.”

A long silence met his demand. Rage mounted in his chest. How had it all happened? How had he lost everything ? If Azriel had freed himself, he no doubt had Ariadne ensnared in his web once again. If Madan escaped his execution, he would come looking for revenge.

“The Caldwell Estate burned to the ground,” Nikolai said, though his voice now sounded distant. “The Dowager Caldwell is nowhere to be found and—”

“Disappointment after disappointment,” Loren snarled and rounded on him. To his credit, Nikolai did not so much as flinch. He lifted his chin, jaw tight, and looked at Loren with caution. “Am I to leave Eastwood Province in such incapable hands?”

Nikolai blinked. “I beg your pardon, Your Majesty? I have not been in Valenul. Had I been there, Antaire would have never—”

“All I hear are excuses.” He glared at the Colonel, then took a deep, steadying breath. When he released it, Loren returned to the throne and sat back again. “Though you are correct. You are not responsible. I assume the officer in charge of his execution is dead?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Good.” Or Loren would have killed the incompetent fool himself otherwise. He glared out the window. With nowhere to direct his ire, he could only bite his tongue or risk losing the closest friend he had.

After a beat of hesitation, Nikolai took a step forward. “I will return to Eastwood and set things right immediately.”

“No.” Loren ground his teeth. Rolling his shoulders back, he faced his friend again and lifted his chin with imperious decision. “As you are one of the few people I trust, I want you here as the head of my royal guard.”

At first, Nikolai gaped at Loren, the words likely foreign to him after being raised outside of a monarchy. No matter. It would all come back in due time. When at last he spoke, he did so with quiet reverence. “I am honored.”

“Send Colonel Foster to Eastwood to clean up this mess.” Loren scowled at a spot on the wall behind Nikolai. “The Province must be prepared for the inevitable retaliation from Antaire and Tenebra. When they attack, I do not want them taken alive. Ensure Foster is aware that, above all else, I want their heads on my mantle.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty.” Nikolai bowed low.

“Your duties as royal guard begin immediately upon your return. Collect your affects, Colonel. You reside here in the castle now.” Loren waved a flippant hand at his friend. “You are dismissed.”

With that, Nikolai retreated from the room. Left alone once again, Loren sagged in his throne, mind whirling at the slew of horrible reports. Before he could dwell too long, however, the doors opened once more, and the next set of Caersans entered to swear fealty. His eyes landed on one, her blonde hair shining in the firelight, and her russet eyes shooting daggers as she curtsied. Anew plan began to form.

“Be at ease, Lord Dodd,” Loren said, a small smirk curling his lips at the possibilities.

Returning to his dhemon form took Azriel no time at all. With such frequent changes—almost nightly now—it no longer registered as painful. The realization that he had grown so used to it, such as the years before meeting Ariadne, concerned him. What other behaviors from when he last resided in Auhla would return?

Azriel shook the thought from his mind. He couldn’t become that person again. He would not become him. Someone so filled with hate and rage. Someone who would watch a village of innocent vampires burn with no remorse.

Yet piecing together his bond had had a similar effect on him over the last week. The anger rose unbidden anytime someone so much as looked at Ariadne too long. The willingness to end a life for her only fueled the incessant fire in him—the endless lust for vengeance, blood, and pain. Only her constant presence eased that tension; her soothing words and the gentle reminders of her beating heart kept him from descending into the darkness that overtook him in Algorath.

Asking her to meet the local clan leaders to prove their union and love opened her up to scrutiny he knew would only worsen his bond’s hold on him. Though dangerous, it would be a necessary evil to ensure the clans’ cooperation in the war ahead.

Azriel stood before a long mirror and grimaced at his reflection. His body was still too thin and not nearly as imposing as he’d like it to be when meeting with such powerful dhemons. Being of naturally smaller stature meant he had more to prove already, and being the son of the Crowe would never be enough. Leaders—particularly those who dhemons considered their version of royalty —were put into power through merit alone.

He needed to earn their loyalty tonight if he wished to lead them into a war.

So he pulled the too-large black shirt over his head, carefully navigating his horns through the wide neck opening before tightening it again. He shoved the tails of the shirt into his dark trousers, wishing, not for the first time, they were more form-fitting. On with the boots. Up with the hair, twisted into a top knot.

When Azriel finally left the room, he felt no more prepared to face the clan leaders than when he’d woken up that night. The dhemons had arrived before midday, greeted by Gavrhil, and fed the best of what they had to offer: fresh-caught venison and a mixture of autumnal vegetables still planted in Auhla ’s gardens. That they wandered the halls of the keep while Phulan pulled Ariadne away to get ready for the evening only heightened his nerves.

What if something happened and he wasn’t there?

The bond roared as the question sparked it into life. Azriel’s heart launched into a gallop.He steadied himself with a hand flat against the stone wall and squeezed his eyes shut.There he shoved away the images conjured by the horrible monster within him and shut out the memory of screams.

He started off again only when he’d wrestled the bond into submission. She would be fine. No one would dare lay a hand on her. Not here. Not with so many sworn to keep her safe.

Down the stairs, he paused in the entry hall and stared at the opening to the dungeons. Not a night went by when he didn’t regret returning to the keep. Not a night went by when he didn’t consider abandoning the place and all its memories. There were, after all, other dhemon-made buildings they could inhabit. None so large or defensible as Auhla , however, what with half of it built directly into the mountainside.

“ Alhija ?” Ariadne’s voice was a balm to his soul—the healing touch needed to soothe the wounds dug so deep within him.

A tightness in Azriel’s chest that he hadn’t realized held him captive eased. He sucked in a deep breath, relishing the floral scent of her, before turning toward the voice of his wife. His love. His life.

Just to have that air punch from his lungs at what he saw.

Ariadne could look like a goddess in tattered rags and mud. Too often, she stunned him when she came to him flushed and drenched in sweat from sparring with Madan and Kall or windswept from flying practice with Whelan. Nothing in the world could diminish her beauty, for it shone from the depths of her soul like a beacon of celestial light.

When Phulan had taken Ariadne from his side just after dusk, insisting on helping her dress for the event, he’d assumed they would hunt for the best of the shirts and trousers available in Auhla . What he hadn’t realized was that the cunning mage had brought more than just spices with her from Algorath.

The deep wine-red dress did not fit Caersan Society standards but rather mage fashion. It flowed over her shoulders, exposing her fair skin from clavicle to navel, and the skirt split from hem to hip on either side. Each step in his direction opened the slits, allowing the full length of her legs to slip through, long and muscled, all the way down to the golden sandals that laced up her calves. A gold chain choker held a single garnet that matched the pair of earrings dangling from her lobes. Her dark hair wove into a complex braid where more of the gems glistened.

It took all of Azriel’s self-control to stay upright and not fall to his knees at her feet and worship the very ground where she stood. Or, more enticing still, carry her away and indulge in her that very instant.

“Azriel?”

This time, her voice shocked him out of his stupor. He picked his jaw up off the floor and closed the distance between them. Cupping her face, thumb tracing the blue veins there, he searched her gaze as he said, “You rival the gods.”

A slow smile curled those perfect lips, and her oceanic eyes glittered. “It is not too much?”

“Never.” He kissed her with restraint while his mind whirled with the possibilities of that dress. It’d be all too easy to sling her over his shoulder and forget the night’s plans. To take her away from this place where she would be at ease and they could lose themselves in one another. Perhaps even in flight, they could—

“ No .” Razer’s voice interrupted his thoughts before the images could fully form. His dragon bondheart let his displeasure be known through the vinculum that connected them.

Azriel could not help his smirk. “ You’re no fun .”

Razer rumbled with indignation before shutting him out completely to continue his flight pattern around the keep. He and several others were in charge of patrolling the skies at all times to ensure Ehrun couldn’t strike with a surprise aerial attack.

Ariadne brought Azriel back to the present before his imagination could run away with him. She stepped in closer, forming her body against his so his growing erection pressed into her belly. The feel of it lit a fire in her gaze, and didn’t that make matters worse? Their absence of intimacy wasn’t for lack of trying. But now? Right now? In that moment? He could smell her arousal as surely as his body reacted to her.

“Unfortunately for you both,” Phulan interrupted, “this will have to wait. Your guests are expecting you.”

And there it was: a bucket of cold water on the mood.

“Later,” Azriel said, still drinking in every facet of the breathtaking Caersan woman before him. “We’ll come back to this later.”

Color spread across her cheeks, but to Azriel’s relief, Ariadne nodded. “Let us go, then.”

They entered the great hall, Ariadne clinging to his arm, to find the place transformed from the previous night. Where the tables had lined the length of the room, now the floor was clear. The raised platform at the far end of the hall bore the one piece of furniture now uncovered.

Azriel’s eyes snapped to the throne of pure obsidian. His father had sat there numerous times after calling on the clans to come together. Many had. Many knelt before it and accepted the Crowe as their King. He had knelt before it to look up at his father while taking his orders and preparing to execute them as their Prince.

Now, it loomed before him in a very different way. Dhemon Kings sat upon that throne through merit alone. They earned the right and the title. What had he done to deserve that seat?

His heart seized, and he paused just beyond the threshold to stare up at it. But they couldn’t linger there. Everyone had crowded into the great hall—escaped prisoners of Algorath, rescued vampire Lords, dhemons he’d befriended, and dhemons he hoped to convince to rejoin the ranks at Auhla . Every single head turned to look at them. Study them. Appraise them.

On his arm, Ariadne tensed. It wasn’t unlike a Society ball. Gods, it wasn’t unlike their own wedding night. Only this time, the eyes that stared glowed red—a prime ingredient for Ariadne’s terrors.

“ Sabharni ,” he whispered in her ear. He’d overheard Kall use the dhemon word—easy—with her during their training anytime she lost focus and needed to recenter herself. “You are safe.”

Pride swelled in his chest when Ariadne nodded, then lifted her chin a little higher as she sucked in a long, deep breath. Though she said nothing while she took her first step with him, her fingers dug into his forearm.

Around them, dhemons murmured amongst each other. The clan leaders had brought their own companies with them. Each wore clothes stitched with their family colors and in their ancestral designs. The bright swirls and fanciful ornamentation told stories proving their worth in love, life, and battle.

They took the handful of steps rising onto the platform overlooking the great hall before turning in unison to the gathered crowd. Silence descended. In its wake, Azriel grew more and more certain everyone could hear the thundering of his heart. He wasn’t ready for this.

Then again, his father should still be sitting on that throne, and this should never have been an issue.

“Welcome,” he said, praying to Keon that he channeled his father’s confidence as he spoke in the dhemon tongue. From amid those gathered who could not understand him, Madan translated his words. “For those who have never been to the Castle before, my name is Azriel the Crowe. This is my wife and the daughter of the late Princeps of Valenul, Ariadne Caldwell.”

A dhemon man wearing clothing with blue stitching murmured something to the woman beside him, his dour expression turning interested, if not cautious. Azriel locked eyes with him, and the man nodded once—an indication that he, at least, was ready to listen.

Azriel lowered onto the throne with as much certainty as he could muster. For a moment, Ariadne stood beside him, her fingers interlaced with his. He looked up to her and, with a subtle tug on her hand, said, “Sit.”

Ariadne squeezed his hand once and lowered with a straight-backed poise she’d never displayed in front of Caersans. At least not from what he had seen. The extensive training had done wonders for her balance and steadiness over the weeks. Most of all, it’d strengthened her resolve and courage. The woman he’d been officially introduced to on Vertium was not the same woman who eased back into him in front of several dozen dhemons.

And, gods, did she spark that possessive, needy fire within him. Her legs spread, one foot planted on the ground and the other dangling off his knee. The dress parted provocatively, putting her thighs on display, and Azriel couldn’t resist the urge to run his fingers up the smooth, exposed skin.

“You are breathtaking,” he whispered in her ear, his hand still trailing paths along her leg. She shuddered as his breath caressed the shell of her ear before he ran his lips over the crook of her neck. “I’d take you right now if you let me.”

Ariadne didn’t so much as glance at him as she said, voice soft and husky, “Address them…then excuse them from this hall.”

He hummed his approval, inhaling the sweet scent of her arousal. “As you wish, my love.”