Page 5

ALARIC

T he journey back to the Northlands takes us five fucking days. I’m not used to traveling with anyone but my men and most certainly not accustomed to having to slow my pace to accommodate oversized carriages full of who knows what. The Magister had tried to send an entire cadre of maids and butlers and even a hair attendant. What in the actual fuck is a hair attendant? Literally a being whose entire purpose in life is to attend to my Consort’s hair? It’s utter insanity. I made the concession to take a Consort, but I will not have such other nonsense in my camp, duty and honor be damned. Dahlia will have her Keeper and her personal chef to attend to her meals, but that is all. And honestly, I’m fairly sure Dahlia wouldn’t want much else if she had the choice. She doesn’t strike me as the type to want to be waited on hand and foot. She’ll have all that she requires and will be treated with all her due respect, but I must draw the line somewhere—and I draw it at a fucking hair attendant.

The Magister looked aghast when I’d made my decree, clearly uncomprehending how a Consort could possibly survive without such things, but after Sebastian’s blessing, he let it slide.

I haven’t spoken a word to Dahlia since we left Astoria’s Keep, have barely even seen her really over the course of the trip. To say that I’m conflicted and confused is an understatement on the most epic of scales. Part of me longs to be near her, the pull nearly undeniable, but the other part refuses to accept this fate and is cursing the gods to the depths of all seven hells. Why would this happen? How can it even be possible? It has to be a mistake. Perhaps something went wrong during the binding and whatever these confused instincts are will fade in time…though I don’t see how that’s likely if I’m going to continue taking her blood. I suppose I could simply continue with the replicated blood I’ve been surviving on for the last nearly four hundred years, but even as the thought forms, my mind rejects it. I sigh, admitting that part of me wants to take her blood. Not just wants, but aches for it.

I’m beyond irritable by the time we stop for the final night before arriving at camp tomorrow. Partly because I do need blood, and partly because the reality of the situation is settling upon me like a thick, suffocating blanket. She’s going to be a part of my life, in some capacity, for the foreseeable future. Regardless of the fact that my instincts are demanding that I do it anyway, I vowed to her father that she would be safe with me, that I would take care of her. And I keep my vows. Always.

But humans are so fucking fragile . I’d mused on that fact as we’d ridden, my mind wandering. Sickness, injury, drowning, an ill-timed cross beneath a snow-covered peak. Hells, even a fucking bee sting. Any little thing could kill her kind so easily. And if she is somehow truly my mate, my life is now tied to hers. I won’t be able to survive without her…

No. Fuck that . I’m Alaric Montclare. I’m the greatest warlord in history. If anyone could survive the death of their mate—a mate I don’t plan to even acknowledge, mind you—it would be me. Even still, I’ll do my best to protect her, to uphold my vow and keep her safe.

“I want a list of your recommendations for a personal guard for my Consort,” I tell Elias, the phrase still feeling strange on my tongue. “Four—no six.”

Elias, my most trusted and valued lieutenant and friend, nods. He’d ridden to meet us at the inn, knowing that I would be anxious for updates from the camp. And, knowing him, he was dying to get a look at my new Consort before anyone else.

“Six seems…excessive…” I arch a brow, telling him that I’m not in the mood, and he holds his hands up in surrender. “Of course. I’ll have a list ready tomorrow upon your arrival.”

“Good. And the additions to my cabin have been made?”

“Yes, all as you requested—with a few changes.”

“Elias,” I say, half warning, half exasperation.

“She’ll love them, I promise. Who has more experience with human women and what they want and need?” Elias arches a golden brow, smirking, and I grind my teeth. The bastard is right—I know next to nothing about human women, while Elias spends plenty of time surrounded by them in blood houses, doing all manner of things that, up until five days ago, I had no interest in.

“Go away,” I growl, which only makes Elias’ smirk turn into a full-fledged grin.

“As you wish,” he says with an exaggerated bow. “I’ll see you tomorrow back at camp and we can…catch up more fully.” He gives me a pointed look and I know he wants to know all the gory details about the Choosing and my new Consort. I can’t tell him about the potential mate issue, of course, but since I’m going to refuse the bond, it doesn’t matter. I wonder how many times I need to say that to myself before it becomes even close to true.

Elias rises and claps me on the shoulder before leaving the room, nearly knocking into Dahlia in the hallway just outside the door.

“Oh!” she exclaims. I shoot to my feet, but Elias reaches out to steady her easily.

“Alright then?” Elias asks, giving her an easy smile. Her eyes widen slightly, her cheeks flushing, and I can hear her heartbeat speed its rhythm. I can’t say that I’m surprised—all women, mortal or otherwise, nearly faint at the sight of Elias. Golden hair, square jaw, eyes as blue as the ocean after a storm—but I am surprised by the surge of jealous annoyance that rips through me.

“Y-yes,” she breathes.

“Have the men from your list assembled for inspection upon our arrival,” I call, a hard edge to my voice that I rarely use with Elias.

“Of course, sir,” Elias says, unfazed, giving me a quick, appraising look before inclining his head. He flashes Dahlia another quick smile—and a fucking wink , making me clench my fists so tightly my knuckles turn white—and heads down the hallway, whistling as he goes. If I didn’t love the bastard so much, I might hate him. Dahlia blinks and watches him go, eyes glued down the hallway.

“Is there something you needed?” I bark, making the girl flinch. Fuck, I really am irritable . I should?—

“I-I was told you might need…blood?” she stammers, pulling her gaze away from Elias’ retreating form and stepping cautiously through the doorway. I can see the pulse point racing at her throat, and my fangs extend, practically throbbing with the longing for blood. Fuck . That hasn’t happened in centuries, not since I was a boy, learning to quell my natural instincts to hunt and feed.

“Come in then,” I say gruffly. I do, in fact, need blood, and I’d better get used to this, I suppose. Perhaps it could improve my mood. I pluck an empty tankard from the table and beckon her forward. She obeys, the fabric of her skirt swishing as she walks. I slowly rake my gaze over her. The dress is simple, nothing like what she wore to the Choosing, but form-fitting, the tight bodice giving her body an hourglass-shape that’s admittedly attractive. Exceedingly attractive. My eyes linger on her chest, the delicate lace wringing the edge of the neckline rising and falling against her sun-kissed skin with every shallow breath she takes. I yank my gaze away as unwanted thoughts flood my mind, making my mood even more foul, but just as I look away, she stumbles, her toe catching the end of her skirt. I reach out and catch her before she tumbles into the table and she gasps, clutching my bicep as I steady her. Our gazes meet and though there’s a bit of fear in her eyes, there’s something else there as well. Something unexpected and unwelcome. Part of my mind taunts me, calling me a lying son of a devil: Unwelcome my fucking ass.

But princes are not supposed to fuck their Consorts. Other vampires sleep with humans, of course, but never the royals. All vampires are strong and can easily kill a human, but the Montclare royals are stronger still. The risk of death is far too great where we’re concerned, and so we do not drink from, or fuck, humans. Officially . I know it happens and I know how often a mess has had be to cleaned and covered up when one of my siblings felt the need to stray from the decrees of our father. But even though the others might do it, I never have.

And that has never bothered me, has really never even entered my thoughts before this moment. My men go to the blood houses, drinking and fucking any human who is willing and amenable, but I’ve never once longed to join them. But now, all I can think of is sinking my fangs into this human’s neck, exploring every inch of her body with my fingers and tongue, hearing her cries in my ears as her blood slides down my throat and my cock slides into?—

I shake myself, forcing the thoughts away. Grinding my teeth, I let her go quickly, not entirely trusting myself to keep my hands on her without doing more. Much, much more. I manage to remain gentle as I push her away, though my roiling thoughts are anything but. She clears her throat quietly, blinking away whatever had been in those piercing eyes a moment ago.

“Do you always have this much trouble walking?” I snap. “You nearly tumble in the hallway and now you can’t do something as simple as walk across the room?”

She blinks again and then narrows her eyes, the green seeming to burn, all vulnerability and fear gone in an instant. Interesting…

“First off, he ran into me , thank you. And I can walk perfectly fine, it’s this fuc—this dress,” she quickly corrects, stopping herself from cursing. It almost improves my mood by a fraction. She pulls her lips in as if she can’t believe she’s just let the words escape, as if she can’t believe she snapped back at a prince, at her prince, but, to my surprise, she doesn’t cower. She has fire inside her, that’s for certain. I find it commendable…and, yes, attractive. Exceedingly so. I can admit that much. Finding her attractive isn’t against any law. Technically, bedding her isn’t against an actual law either, it’s more just an understood expectation…

Get a hold on your fucking thoughts , I snap silently to myself. I need to stop thinking about fucking this girl, because the more I think, the more vivid my imagination becomes, the more my instincts fire and scream, demanding that I claim her, sink my fangs deep into her tender flesh while I sink my co?—

“What is wrong with the dress?” I ask, cooly, stopping the thought in its tracks once more. She clenches her jaw several times and seems to be trying to rein in her temper before replying.

“I’m not used to wearing them,” she finally says, equally cooly.

“Then why are you wearing one now?” I ask, too tired and annoyed to hide my confusion, brow furrowing. A small v forms between her own brows as she glances down at the garment in question, running her hands down her front.

“I was told that I should—” I hold up a hand up and roll my eyes, realization hitting.

“Your Keeper is used to Consorts in the castles, Consorts of true princes,” I say with a shake of my head. “Wear whatever the fuck you like, and tell your Keeper that is my decree. In fact, trousers will be much easier for you in the Northlands and within the camp. They’ll keep you warmer and when the rains come, you won’t want to be dragging around a dress with mud coating the skirt everywhere you go.” I suppose I’ll have to speak with her Keeper and ensure that proper clothing is acquired for her, not the typical wardrobe of a Consort. Had no one thought of how impractical a bunch of ball gowns would be in a fucking war camp?

“Oh,” she says, clearly surprised. “Alright then.”

We stand in silence for a moment. Surprisingly, it isn’t entirely uncomfortable, but as I watch her pulse beat at the base of her throat, my fangs ache and I’m reminded of my need. I gesture impatiently for her hand and she offers it up, a curious look on her face. She doesn’t seem afraid, merely interested and maybe a bit nervous. I know that simply being around me is unnerving for her, as it is for most humans who don’t routinely encounter the royals. All vampires give off something unworldly that humans can instinctively perceive, instinctively know to fear, but the royals are something else entirely. We are the apex of all predators, innate power flowing in our veins that makes humans both enamored and terrified.

I use my nail to slice her wrist, trying my best to be gentle and cause her the least amount of pain as possible. She hisses in a sharp breath but doesn’t try to pull away. My mouth waters and my fangs throb as the sweet, heady scent of her blood hits me. I’ve never smelled human blood so alluring, so full of life. I watch as it spills into the tankard, commanding my body to remain still and under complete and total control. I make sure not to take too much—I know that it will take time before her body grows accustomed to the loss. Even now, her skin pales and she sways slightly.

“Sit,” I command, voice rough and full of authority as I release her hand. I suppose I’m used to addressing my soldiers and wait for her to flinch away, or hells, maybe push back, but she obeys, blinking rapidly as she sinks heavily into the chair. Perhaps I took too much? I quickly grab a cloth and press it to her wrist. She holds it there as I step away, looking a little dazed. I rummage in one of my bags for the tonic the healers had given me for just this purpose. I uncork the bottle, the sweet scent of honey and the spice of underlying herbs hitting my nose.

“Drink this.” She takes the bottle, eyeing me a little warily. “It will help with the dizziness you’re feeling from the blood loss. That will lessen over time, I’m told, and there are pills that will help replenish your blood more quickly. A supply of them should be in with your things packed in one of the carriages.”

She nods and drinks, wrinkling her nose as she swallows and then glaring at me as if I tricked her into drinking poison. I almost laugh. Gods, the nonstop war inside my mind between irritation and interest, between amusement and loathing, between instincts and what I refuse to accept, is making my head ache. I feel a bit as if I’ve been caught within one of the deadly cyclones out at sea, being thrown this way and that and back again, never able to find my footing before being thrown yet again. I don’t know how to act or what to say or think or do. And I don’t like not knowing.

“The whole thing,” I say, gesturing to the bottle. She sighs but lifts the vial to her lips once more.

“So, it’s true then,” she says quietly, taking another small sip, “that the princes don’t take straight from the flesh.”

“Do you sink your teeth directly into the cow or chicken?” I ask, sarcasm thick in my voice.

“Only when I’m really hungry,” she replies dryly, almost absently, and I smother a laugh. She rubs her temples, still pale, a thin sheen of sweat covering her forehead. I frown, wondering if there’s something more wrong than simple blood loss. Shouldn’t the tonic have started working by now? What is this incessant worry clawing at my throat at the idea of something being wrong with her, or her being hurt? Fucking hells.

“Why not? I know other vampires do.”

“And how, exactly, do you know that?”

She huffs out a laugh. “I didn’t grow up in the noble district, as I’m sure you know. I’m well aware of what goes on in a blood house.”

“Are you now?” I ask in a silky voice, despite myself, brow arched in something dangerously close to teasing. Some color comes back to her cheeks as she blushes.

“I mean, I’m not well aware. I’ve never…I mean, I haven’t personally …but I’ve, uh, heard stories…maybe spied a bit from a tree outside…” I tilt my head, surprised by her confession. Surprised and amused and maybe even a little aroused, though I can’t explain why. Her eyes fly wide and she puts her head in her hands, whispering, “I cannot believe I just said that out loud.”

I turn away to hide the smile pulling on my lips. I walk to the hearth and stare out of the window just beside it into the darkness for a long moment. I turn back to her, leaning a shoulder against the mantle. I’m honestly not used to conversing with humans casually, save the few that work in the camp, but even then we aren’t, what does Elias call it? Shooting the shit. But one of the many reasons I’d chosen Dahlia (at least the reasons that I’ll admit to at this point) was because I thought I might be able to hold a conversation with her without wanting to claw my own eyes out. So far, we’ve managed fairly well. The few moments we spent in her father’s shop after the ceremony had been…pleasant. I originally thought that I’d keep myself closed off from her completely, but with her here now, I find that I…want to talk to her? Fuck. Might as well give it a shot, I suppose.

“Princes do not take from the flesh partly because my father decreed that we were above such baser desires long ago, and we adhere to his instructions still. Though they are not absolute law...” Why the fuck did I say that? I will not be bending this rule, this non-absolute law. I. Will. Not. I clear my throat lightly. “But we also refrain because the princes are different than other vampires, as I’m sure you are aware.” She nods gravely, a small shudder running through her body. “All vampires are strong and can kill a human while feeding, but the princes even more so. Our strength is beyond compare. We could easily snap your bones to twigs, grind them to dust, drain you as dry as a corn husk.” And it isn’t just because of the feeding. Lust and bloodlust often get roused together for vampires, the intensity and aggression and wanting all mixing together, and the outcome can be disastrous if the vampire loses control. But if a prince were to lose control? There could be literally nothing left of the human but a memory.

“Easily?” she asks, voice shaking ever so slightly, though I can tell she’s trying her best to hide it.

“Easier than breathing,” I respond without thinking, only realizing how harsh it might sound when she swallows hard. I’m not used to mincing words or trying to be mindful of someone’s feelings. I’m not harsh with my soldiers—unless it’s warranted, of course—but I am direct. I feel the tiniest bit of guilt when I see fear flare in her eyes, guilt and a feeling of utter wrongness in my bones.

She should never fear you , a voice whispers in the back of my mind. You are meant to protect her, to ease her fears, to put her above all else and make her happy . I scowl at the voice and she tears her gaze away, looking down at her wrist. The cloth is stained red with her blood. She tentatively pulls it away and inhales sharply.

“Seven hells,” she whispers. “It’s…it’s almost healed already!” She looks at me again, confusion and question in her eyes. I notice the striations of gold within the green that most humans wouldn’t be able to see at all. They are utterly captivating.

“It’s because of the binding. Our blood has healing properties. The effects will wear off for you after a few weeks since such little blood was exchanged, but you will heal quickly, be a bit stronger and faster than usual, possibly even sense my emotions, if they’re strong enough, I suppose, though I doubt you took enough for that.”

“What?” she blurts, incredulous. I shrug.

“It is one of the effects of sharing blood.” With such a little exchange on her part, it is unlikely she’ll be able to sense anything from me, but I, on the other hand, won’t be so lucky. I asked Bastian about it, and he confirmed that yes, they all can feel their Consort’s emotions at times, but the physical distance helps and they all learned to ignore them long ago. It would just take time for me to as well. Yet another thing I’m going to have to deal with.

The clever girl comes to the same conclusion on her own.

“So…so you’ll be able to feel what I’m feeling all the time then, since you’ll be drinking my blood often?”

I hike a shoulder. She mutters a soft what the fuck? that I’m sure she doesn’t realize I can hear and runs a finger over the small pink line where I’d sliced her skin only minutes ago. Her color has thankfully returned, a warm glow beneath her sun-bronzed skin. My fangs lengthen and throb once more and I realize I haven’t actually fed yet. I steel myself and then quickly cross back to the table, grabbing the tankard and draining the contents. When her blood hits my tongue, my eyes slide closed and though I try to lock my muscles in place, the taste hits me like a physical blow and I take one staggering step back. A low growl rumbles in my chest and a glorious fire tears through every inch of me, flooding my veins. I’m more prepared this time, but dear gods it’s still an intense rush that I don’t think I’ll ever fully grow accustomed to.

When I open my eyes again, everything in the room looks suddenly brighter. The smells are stronger, the sounds sharper, the colors more vibrant. Everything is just… more somehow. Fuck me. Is it always like this with fresh blood from the vein? Or is it only because of…?

I focus my gaze back on Dahlia to find her staring.

“Is it different?” she asks, “than the replicated blood?”

“You have no idea,” I mutter quietly, not really meaning to let the words slip free, but not particularly caring at the moment either. I feel almost drunk, as if I’ve been drinking blood-laced ale or whisky all night. My blood feels practically molten, pumping faster through every inch of my body, my muscles tensing and strength coursing through me like a storm. I inhale deeply and Dahlia’s scent hits me, stronger than before. The sweetness of her blood mixed with a wild, floral scent— how apt —that inexplicably makes me aroused as hell. I’ve always managed to keep lust and bloodlust separate in my mind, never truly understanding how the two get so mixed up together for so many vampires, but now…

My fangs ache, my nails sharpen and curl into claws, and my cock is suddenly as hard as the steel of Night’s Fury. I move across the room quicker than she could possibly track, putting as much space between us as possible. I’m breathing hard, instincts and desires screaming in my head. Over the tumult, I can hear her thundering heart, can smell the fear tinging the air. No. No, I’m scaring her. I could hurt her. I could kill her. The thought sends a tendril of fear and disgust through my body, strong enough to clear my thoughts and allow me to regain control. By sheer force of will, I lock my muscles into place and clear my throat, willing my mind to blank and forcing my body under my command. Regardless of my determination not to formally accept her as my mate, my priority will still always be to keep her safe.

Especially from myself.

“That will be all, Keeva,” I bite out in a low, rough voice.

“Keeva?” she whispers.

I turn back to her. Her eyes are wide, her pulse racing at her throat. With more composure than I would have thought myself capable of in this moment, I wave her question away airily.

“It is simply your name in my language,” I lie.

She nods, rising and practically fleeing from the room. I collapse heavily back against the wall, breathing as if I’ve just come from the battlefield. I rub the heel of my hand against my chest, just over my heart.

“What in the fucking hells am I going to do?”