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ALARIC

I ’m not quite sure what to make of all that has transpired this day. It hasn’t turned out at all as I’d been expecting. Or dreading, rather, I suppose. I still can’t believe that I’d actually been forced to take part in the ridiculous ceremony at all, after two hundred years of avoiding it, but what had happened during it was…interesting to say the least.

The entire palace had been a flurry of activity since the moment I arrived, and I immediately felt as if I were suffocating. I missed the crisp, biting air of the mountains, I missed the rolling hills and the roar of the river and the smell of the snow far in the distance. It had been good to see my siblings—most of them, anyway—but if I were congratulated one more time for “finally becoming a real Montclare” I was going to start cutting off limbs. Ahmed especially seemed to delight in my misfortune, grinning like a snake behind his wine glass and reminding me all over again why he’s my least favorite brother.

I’d been forced into formal attire (which I hate), been told to leave my weapons in my chambers (which I despise), and one of my sisters had been chasing me around all morning hellbent on taming my hair (which is entirely impossible). Ever the brilliant military tactician, I’d evaded her, of course, but when Fiona gets something in her head, she’s a determined little devil. The two of us are only a few months apart in age, but she constantly likes to remind me that she’s older. I love her more than most anything else in this world, but I refuse to be treated like a doll. So, I’d ducked into a hidden corridor in an attempt to escape the madness and, admittedly, hide until the cursed ceremony began.

I walked along the hallway, trailing my fingers along the cold, rough stone, smiling faintly at the remnants of the places where I painted on the walls when I’d found this hiding place as a child. Voices flitted to my ears and I ground my teeth in annoyance, realizing too late that this corridor ran behind the smaller ballroom that was used as the preparation area for the Potentials.

“Fucking perfect,” I’d groaned as I continued on, listening to the inane chatter.

“You must be chosen, Halda. Your father’s gambling…well, you just must .”

“Lace your corset tighter. That’s it.”

“Is this truly his first bride?”

“Drink this. The glendine root brings the blood to the surface. It will attract his attention.”

I rolled my eyes and my fangs slid out in irritation. I hurried along the corridor, wanting to get away from these humans as quickly as possible. They were all vapid and spoiled, trained to be Consorts since birth and look down their noses at nearly everyone—and I can’t stand the lot of them. It’s one of the many reasons I’ve chosen the life I have. I prefer blood and battle over…well, pretty much everything else, but definitely over high society bullshit. I’d hated having to attend balls and soirees as a child, even then hating how the Consorts acted to everyone around them, hating the idea of someday having to take one of my own.

“I cannot believe you’re wearing that.” Another voice had filtered through the stone, followed by a snort of a laugh.

“Have you met me?” This voice had a slight husk to it that made me slow my steps. It was…pleasing to my ears.

The first girl laughed lightly. “Ok, so I can believe it, but still. You know damn well that most Potentials wear white …and far more modest dresses. It’s tradition.” Her voice was softer than the other girl’s, higher pitched but gentle.

“It’s fucking stupid is what it is.”

I blinked in surprise. I was honestly shocked a Potential even knew the word fuck , let alone would say it so casually.

“Dahlia,” the girl hissed in a warning whisper, though there was amusement there as well. Dahlia . A pretty name, I supposed. The flower she was named after grows high in the mountains, near my camp. Some might say that this was a sign of sorts, but I didn’t believe in signs. At least, I didn’t when I was in that hallway…now, I’m not sure.

“What? You know as well as I do that I will never be picked, regardless of what I wear. We shouldn’t even be here, Enid.” I moved towards the voices, leaning my shoulder against the wall, imagining what might be happening on the other side of the stone. I knew that a small room had been partitioned off for each Potential Consort to dress and prepare in semi-privacy within the ballroom.

Why shouldn’t you be here? I wondered, despite myself. As if in answer, the girl—Dahlia—spoke again.

“I’m only here because Lord Burren hated his worthless son and left his entire fortune and title to da instead. We’re technically a noble family now, but in what world does a blacksmith’s daughter really belong here?”

My brows had flown up at that. A blacksmith? I wondered…but it couldn’t be…could it? I can admit that my interest was piqued, something strange simmering in my blood.

“That may be true, but we are noble now. So, you could at least pretend to be a lady.”

“Again, I must ask: have you met me?” Dahlia asked incredulously.

I’d barely stopped myself from laughing. Enid did laugh, seemingly despite herself.

“Alright, fair point.” I heard a rustle of fabric, and when she spoke again, she sounded closer to the other girl. “Mum would roll over in her grave if she could see you right now.”

“I think the dress would be the least of her worries about me.”

“You mean like you in the stables with the Roland twins last week?” Another round of soft laughter, and, damn it, I couldn’t curb my curiosity. What in the devil’s name had she done in the stable with these Roland twins? And had she done whatever it was with both of them?? For reasons I couldn’t fathom, I was entirely intrigued, and yet…bothered?

Enid sounded thoughtful when she’d said, “But of all the princes to be Choosing today and this is the dress you wear…” Dahlia made a sound that was part groan, part sigh.

“I know. I know. But don’t read anything into it, Enid. You and your signs from the gods.” I could practically hear the girl rolling her eyes. “It doesn’t matter what dress I’m wearing, I won’t be considered for even a moment as a real option. They’re given dossiers on every Potential, you know. He’ll take one look at our family history and toss mine into the fire, I assure you. So, nothing to fret about.”

It was true that I’d been given information on each of the Potentials. Names, family lineage, any previous Consorts from the house, languages spoken, instruments played, special skills—none of which I gave two shits about. So, I hadn’t read any of the files. I honestly wasn’t sure how I was going to pick at that point. Perhaps I’d toss a pebble and whomever it hit was the winner. Or loser, I supposed, depending on how one chose to look at it.

Enid didn’t sound convinced, giving a simple noncommittal “mmm” but chose to let the topic drop and move on to the more interesting one of me .

“So, do you think he’ll come back from the war now that he’s choosing a Consort?”

“I don’t think so,” Dahlia had responded. “He’s a warrior. He won’t be content to be caged in some castle drinking blood-laced whisky or wine, having courtiers fawn over him and companions falling over themselves to get into his bed—well, perhaps he’d like that bit, actually. But he’s been free,” she added in a wistful sigh, “he couldn’t give that up any more than he could stop breathing, I’d bet.” I leaned away from the wall, stared at the stone as if I could see past it if I only concentrated hard enough, that I could see the girl on the other side. The girl who, somehow, had me dead to rights without ever meeting me. Leading my army, the thrill of battle, riding my warhorses over the rolling hills: it was freedom. A freedom I couldn’t imagine giving up. It was a part of me, as much as a limb. I could survive the loss of it, surely, but it would be a constant pain that I could never escape, knowing my men were out there fighting without me.

“Well, I’m sure his Consort will love being toted off to some war camp in the mountains instead of a lavish castle,” Enid added with a laugh.

“Oh gods, can you imagine Nicoletta Hargrave out in the Northlands, surrounded by an entire army of vampires? Do’ye think she would shite herself first? Or just die on the spot?”

The girls both laughed, and I felt the corner of my mouth curl upward, partly in amusement at her words and partly because of her accent. The brogue of the mountain lands to the east slipped through a bit thicker as she joked with Enid. I’d always liked the sound of it, something a bit…wild and untamed associated with the lilting melody. The girl couldn’t live there, I knew, her accent not nearly thick enough for that to be the case, but perhaps her parents had. Many of my men were Rykhurst born, and hearing the brogue brought back memories of them sitting around campfires, drinking and telling tales, of comradery and friendship…and the bitter tang of loss as I remembered the ones that had been slain over the years.

I suppose it was then that I’d decided that she would be the one, but everything had shifted so completely when she’d entered the ballroom, any doubt or questions melting away like snow at the edge of winter. She was absolutely stunning, more beautiful than I could have imagined, and I watched raptly as she took her turn to be presented, walking down the center of the enormous room, shoulders back, despite her thundering heart giving away her nerves. Flaming red hair and startling green eyes, the color of jade. She was tall for a woman—though she would still probably only reach my chest, if that—and she was lithe and shapely, the material of her dress hugging her curves in a way that made me crave…things. Things I had no business craving, at least not from the likes of her, and things I promptly told myself to stop fucking thinking about .

But besides her beauty, I’d taken note of the quiet ferocity and strength about her. The other Consorts reminded me of the delicate petals of a flower, but Dahlia was like a rose: beautiful, but with thorns one should mind.

When she’d moved ever closer to the dais, I’d felt it. Like a small explosion in my chest, everything around me seemed to flare brighter for a moment, rocking me back on my heels. My entire world seemed to tilt and change its focus, now revolving solely around the girl before me. My heart thundered, my fangs shot long without thought, and my blood felt as it was boiling in my veins. At first, I had no idea what was happening, no idea why my body and soul seemed to be pulled to her, as if she were my sole purpose in life, as if she were the sun, as if?—

No , I’d thought, horrified by the possibility even as part of me reveled in it, soared with a joy I couldn’t explain. Keeva , my mind whispered in our ancient language. Mine .

No, no, no. I refused to accept the truth of what I’d felt, even as instincts flared to life, instincts I never thought I’d hear inside my mind. My entire being screamed at me, screamed things I didn’t want to hear. I forced my body into immobility, forced my mind to quiet. I would not obey these instincts. I would not accept this fate.

I’d been the first Montclare to leave the life of luxury and join the army.

Now I would be the first one to forsake his mate.

She. Is. Not. Mine. I growled the thought, over and over, determined for it to become fact by sheer force of will. Even so, her name left my lips without thought when the Magister asked for my choice. As much as I was determined not to accept this ridiculous idea, I also refused to leave this place without her.

The binding had been a special kind of torture, but if there was one thing I’ve mastered in my three hundred and fifty years in this world, it’s complete discipline over my body. Even so, I barely held myself still, barely stopped from yanking her to me, sinking my fangs into her throat and drinking what the gods had deigned was mine by rights. Her blood was…ecstasy. Never had I tasted anything so sweet, so full of life, so addictive. It drove me nearly mad, made my pulse race and my cock ache and strength flood every inch of me. With but a few drops, I felt as if I could destroy all of the Revenants single handedly.

Mate or not, with the taste of her on my tongue, I could understand why the elders had decreed that taking straight from a living source was to be avoided by the royal line. My baser desires and instincts flared to the front, my fangs shooting ever longer, my nails flaring and sharpening into claws, the urge to bite her tender flesh startling me in its fierceness. My muscles tensed, bulging as my body prepared to strike. I could snap her like a twig, could turn her bones to dust without even trying should I lose control. I heard my brothers chuckling low behind me and I knew that the bastards knew exactly what I was thinking and feeling—at least to an extent. I feared that what I was experiencing was even more intense because of the fact that she was…No. Again, I refused to even think it.

I also understood now why so many of my men frequented the blood house in the village to the west of the camp. I was suddenly envious of my men, envious of their lack of title, the lack of expectation to be above such desires and to abstain from ever taking blood directly from a human’s body, of doing…other things with a human. The idea of sinking my fangs and my cock into Dahlia…I’d shuddered violently and locked every muscle into place, commanding my body to obey.

In addition to the bliss of her blood, I felt a connection between us snap into place as soon as our glasses were drained. It was as if a cord tethered us together now. A thin cord, given the small amount of blood, but a cord nonetheless. I knew the cord would only strengthen for me each time I drank her blood, and I scowled at the thought. This was going to be difficult enough as it was, but being connected to her in this way was going to make everything that much harder.

“This concludes the Choosing,” the Magister’s voice rings out now. All of the vampires bow their heads. The other Potentials finally rise from their kneeling positions in front of the dais, some wearing expressions of shock, others of devastation, and still others of disgust and anger. One girl in particular sneers at Dahlia with such contempt that I’m glad that looks cannot kill or my new Consort would be dead on the spot. Instincts flare and for reasons I can’t quite understand, I shift to put myself between Dahlia and the girl, to shield her, to…protect her. The girl shifts her gaze upward and whatever she sees on my face has her paling and quickly averting her eyes, scurrying out of the room behind the other humans like a rat fleeing a sinking ship, her heart thundering in her chest, fear thick and acrid in the air.

I turn, intending to say something to Dahlia—though I admittedly don’t know what—but the Magister’s attendants are already dragging her away from the dais and out of a side door, the girl looking utterly dazed. From my blood? Or from the situation in general? Her entire world has just been upended, after all, of course she might be a bit out of sorts. Sebastian clamps a hand on my shoulder as I stare after my Consort. The word feels strange in my mind. I will not even think the other. She is my Consort only, nothing more.

“See, not so bad, was it? You chose well, brother. She’s quite stunning. And that dress .” Sebastian shakes his head, squeezing my shoulder. “A bit unorthodox, of course, but…my gods.” Princes do not engage in physical acts with mortals—at least not officially. Unofficially, I know damned well that plenty of them partake, it’s simply not spoken about and hidden away—but that doesn’t mean we can’t…appreciate the view. And it’s true: the dress is unlike what any other Potential had worn. It was evocative . While the others wore white or pale shades of pink or blue, in tulle and gossamer, flowing away from their bodies and making them look like, in my humble opinion, large puffed pastries, Dahlia’s dress was midnight blue silk that flowed over her body like water, hugging every curve as if had been painted there by an artist’s skilled hand. The straps over her shoulders connected with links of metal, and the front dipped daringly between her breasts. At first look, it appeared that an overlay of black lace ran along the bodice and down the skirts, flowing out behind her in a small train, but upon closer inspection, I found that it was thin, intricately designed chainmail. A dress befitting a blacksmith’s daughter , I muse. And a dress befitting the mate of a warlord …I scowl at that, banishing the thought away.

“She is of a new noble family, so she was not raised in this life. But,” Sebastian studies me for a long moment, searching my eyes in that way he has, “I think that might suit you perfectly. And hells, if she has more garments like that dress, sharing a cabin may not be so bad…” My brother waggles his eyebrows in a manner that’s very unbecoming of the head of the Montclare Clan, grinning like a horse’s ass.

“You could have warned me about the blood,” I hiss, changing the subject from the way Dahlia had looked in that sin of a gown, and ducking out of his grip to shove him hard in the shoulder.

Sebastian chuckles. “Now where would the fun be in that?” I narrow my eyes but that only makes Sebastian’s grin widen. “We knew that you could handle it, oh great warlord.” I roll my eyes and he laughs, that deep, booming laugh that warms my soul. Fiona bounds up then and immediately frowns at my hair.

“I cannot believe you went through your first Choosing looking like that. I could have?—”

“No, you couldn’t have, Fi. My hair cannot be tamed.”

“Just like your heart,” she says with a roll of her golden eyes. She wraps her arms around me and I hold her close, squeezing her tightly. I’ve missed her. I know I should come visit more often, but it’s hard for me to be away from my men, to keep the war from my mind for any real amount of time. As if reading my thoughts, Fiona sighs.

“Will you stay and celebrate?” she asks, though she already knows the answer.

“I want to get back to my men.”

“Why you choose to spend all your time among smelly, dirty vampire soldiers is beyond me,” Fi says with a dramatic shudder.

“ I am a smelly, dirty vampire soldier, dear sister,” I remind her, placing a swift kiss to her temple.

“I am proud of you, little brother,” Sebastian tells me with a ruffle of my hair. “Your Consort is being escorted home to collect her belongings and then she’ll be brought back for you?—”

“I’ll go to her,” I interrupt. Sebastian’s brow furrows and Fiona rolls her eyes again.

“Do you not know who her father is, Bastian?” she asks. Of course she would know. Fi would have studied the dossiers on all of the Potentials, probably knows their family histories going back centuries and learned it just for fun. She’s always been the scholar of the family, retaining information in ways I can’t even fathom. Bastian thinks on it for a moment and then his eyes light with understanding.

“Ah, Clayburn . The smith. Of course you want to meet the man in person. Is that why you chose her, then? Because of her father?”

“Partly,” I admit, though it isn’t completely true. It’s a perk, to be sure, but I’d chosen Dahlia for a host of other reasons that I need more time to fully analyze and understand, reasons I most certainly can’t explain to Sebastian. To tell the leader of the Clan that I’d found my mate in a human? He’d be…concerned to say the least. It’s unheard of. Mates are never human. The loss of a mate is too traumatic for a vampire to bear, his or her life and soul too entwined with the other to continue alone. Humans are entirely too fragile, their life spans too short. The gods would never play such a cruel joke as to pair a prince with a human. Except, apparently, they have…if I choose to accept it, which of course, I won’t.

Of course, if somehow a mate was human, they could be turned…but the catalyst for turning is death. It would be almost too much for any vampire to handle, even for the short time between death and the transition, but princes felt things stronger than other vampires. It would be agony to wait, to feel the loss of his mate, even for a few hours.

And the turning doesn’t always work.

I shake myself, not wanting to continue down this particular line of thinking.

“I wonder if the great smith has received all of your declarations of love in the post,” Sebastian muses in a teasing voice. “Perhaps he’ll agree to be your Consort in his daughter’s place.”

I shove my favorite brother harder this time and he laughs heartily.

“Fuck off, Bastian,” I mutter, though I can’t help the small smile that curls my lips. For all that I love my camp and my soldiers, love the mountains and the snow and the thrill of battle, I do miss my family (most of them—Ahmed can fuck off) dearly. Though I plan to go collect Dahlia, I take a few minutes to visit with the rest of the family. I meet several nieces and nephews for the first time—the fact that they aren’t infants makes me realize how long it’s been since I’ve made an effort to see most of my siblings. I have the excuse of fighting a constant war that keeps all of them, the entire continent , safe, but I know that I should do better. But, in truth, I’ve always felt so different than any of them, so on the outside. Bastian and Fi are the only ones who seem to actually understand my choices and my decision to join the fight rather than take the mantle of a true royal—and don’t judge me for them. Even still, I should at least write to the others more often, send gifts for the children.

“I’ll come visit soon, to check in on…things,” he says, slapping me on the back.

“Well, I won’t come visit that terrible camp, but if you decide to go to Ashcliff, I will gladly come see you there,” Fi says with a pleading smile. She’s always adored my manor—a castle, really, I suppose, but I hate using that term—overlooking the Lyranian Sea. I rarely go there, haven’t been in…almost twenty years, I think with a frown. Perhaps Dahlia would like…

I shake myself, pushing the thought away.

“If I make a trip to the coast, I will let you know,” I promise her. “And my camp is not terrible,” I add. She gives me a look that says she would rather lose a limb than spend time there and I smile. “I’ll see you soon, brother,” I tell Bastian. I glance towards the rest of my siblings and catch Ahmed glaring my way. I glare right back, itching for him to try something. Bastian follows my gaze and rolls his eyes.

“It was more than two hundred years ago, Alaric. You’ve got to let it go.”

“I most certainly do not. Isn’t that one of the perks of being immortal? I can hold a grudge for all of eternity if my prick of a brother deserves it?” He sighs and shakes his head, knowing I won’t be moved from this. Let him be buried alive in fifty feet of snow for weeks by his own brother and see if he’s quick to forgive. Ahmed claimed later that it was a harmless prank, but I honestly believe he was trying to kill me. All over a barmaid who found her way into my bed instead of his , I think with a roll of my eyes.

“Goodbye, Bastian,” I say again, hugging him tightly once more time.

“Good luck,” he calls with a laugh as I stride off the dais and through the palace, suddenly desperate to find my…Consort.