The first Emillie had been introduced to at the camp on Lake Cypher. Lhuka, she recalled, had been close to the dhemon whonever made it back from Laeton, Gavrhil. Since his close friend’s death, Margot Caldwell had informed her that he stepped down from his duties in running the keep to watch over their latest and most dangerous prisoner.
Behind them both, a smaller dhemon with sinister-looking knives, half an ear missing, and a permanent scowl followed. Emillie overheard someone refer to him as Jakhov. Of the two guards, he was the one she saw the most dhemons give the widest berth as they moved through the great hall, turning in their seats to face away or nod in reverence.
But it was Jakhov who slid his eyes across the new faces, calculating each non-dhemon he saw before landing on her. His wicked red eyes sparkled with recognition for a brief moment, then flickered to Luce. When his gaze landed on Revelie, however, his steps faltered. The crimson glowed hungrily, and his lips parted a fraction as though the entire world had careened to a standstill.
“Who is that?” Luce demanded, her unseen hackles rising as she looked from the dhemon to the vampire across the table.
Revelie frowned as Jakhov found his footing again and hurried after Ehrun to sit at Madan’s table. “I have never seen him before.”
Emillie tilted her head. “I believe he is called Jakhov. I overheard Madan assigning him to Ehrun’s guard.”
“Why did he look at me like that?” Revelie glanced over her shoulder to where Jakhov turned in his seat, keeping them in his periphery.
Though Emillie shrugged, Luce’s cheeks flushed. She glared at a spot in front of her before muttering something under her breath. The lycan’s slide back into the distant reservation piqued Emillie’s interest. Whatever happened with Jakhov had Luce on edge…and it had Emillie recalling all those moments when the lycan had looked atherwith the same devouring gaze.
Madan’s lungs refused to expand as Ehrun settled onto the bench across from him. Beside the great dhemon, Lhuka slid into place, his gaze distant despite the alertness to his figure. After a few tense beats, Jakhov straddled the bench, his own shoulders bearing more strain than Madan could remember ever seeing from the dhemon. Of them all, he’d always been the sharpest and most brutal. It was why Madan placed him on guard duty. The dhemon’s gaze, however, wandered back toward Emillie, Luce, and Revelie.
Odd.
“What are you doing?” Whelan’s voice cut through Madan’s thoughts as his mate latched onto the vinculums between them.
Chewing his tongue a moment, Madan studied Ehrun and responded silently, “An olive branch.”
“He killed Kall,” Whelan snapped out loud, not hiding the venom in his words.
Across the table, Ehrun winced and looked down at his hands without speaking. The quiet pain that rippled from him looked and felt so much like their deceased friend that, had Ehrun borne the same scars on his face, Madan might’ve been tricked into believing Kall sat there instead.
“Sabharni,alhija,” Madan said, laying a hand over Whelan’s and giving it a squeeze. His stomach churned as he felt that phantom pain from Kall’s death again. Bringing Whelan’s hand up to kiss his knuckles, Madan continued in the dhemon language, “He did. And he is now paying for his crimes.”
After a century and a half of Ehrun’s mania, Madan braced himself for a snide remark. Some quip to cut him down or for the dhemon to gain the upper hand in some way.
None came. Instead, Ehrun lifted his gaze to them and said in the dhemon tongue, “Why didn’t you kill me?”
“Believe me,” Madan said, “if it were my choice, you’d be rotting on the mountainside.”
Confusion creased the space between Ehrun’s brows. “Azriel didn’t want me dead? I don’t believe that.”
Whelan’s lip curled in disgust. When he appeared to be at a loss for words, Madan pulled a plate from a small stack down the table and shoveled roasted vegetables onto it along with raw venison. He shoved it across the table at Ehrun, who stared at it in shock.
“I have done nothing but torment you all for decades,” Ehrun rumbled, his voice quiet as his chest heaved with shallow breaths. “He hates me.”
“We all hate you,” Whelan corrected, his hands curling into fists. “And if my Queen hadn’t given the order—”
Madan elbowed him, cutting his words short, but it was too late.
Ehrun’s eyes widened. “Ariadne?”
“Wash her name from your mouth,” Whelan snarled, half out of his seat. “You do not have the privilege of even acknowledging her existence.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Fuck you!” Whelan stood now, slamming his hands on the table and towering over them. Rage and sorrow crashed through the connection between them, making Madan wince alongside Lhuka and Jakhov. Only Ehrun, with his bondheart too far away, couldn’t feel the flood of emotions, but he could see them clearly enough to have the good sense to be concerned.
Heart hammering, Madan stood and grabbed Whelan’s arm. “Whelan, take a walk.”
“I won’t leave you alone with thismonster.” Whelan’s sharp teeth gnashed together on the final word, never taking his eyes from Ehrun. “He destroys everything he touches, and I’ll never forgive him.”
“Whelan—”
