As he trails off, the name of Glintov’s “true liege” does not need to be said.What will Spymistress Mortisdowith this information is anyone’s guess.
I don’t care about any of that right now. Not with Garroway straddling limbo and pandemonium.
The dhampir closes his eyes and rests into the arms of his nobleblood master. The expression on Skar’s face melts from concern to devious exuberance, a wicked grin slashing across his features. He gently pets Garro’s nape and the back of his skull. “Quite good, my cub. You’ve done excellent work this evening. You deserve a treat.”
Garro lets out a deep breath. He looks completely exhausted, out of it.I can’t believe I didn’t know how dire things could become for him during his beast-charming excursions.
Clearly, there is still far too much we don’t know about his power. The fact my Lorebloodgavehim the power is distressing in its own right.
“Your praise is e-enough of a treat,” Garroway says, leaning his head back.
With his head upside down, and Skar holding his boneless neck, the nobleblood leans forward and gives him a soft kiss on the lips. “You are too good to us, Garroway Kuffich,” Skar purrs into his ear.
My frustration and anger boils again. I know exactly what Skartovius is doing, and it disgusts me.Using him, whispering sweet nothings afterward to tell him how good of a boy he is. I’ve seen this story before from other manipulative, rotten men.
“Doing your bidding is my purpose, Mistress,” Garroway sighs, and I catch the moment of tightness form on Skar’s face, his muscles flexing.“Mistress?” Fuck. Garro is confused. He thinks I’m the one who kissed him just now.“I live to serve,” Garroway continues. His eyes haven’t opened since the initial wrenching into his body. With a breath, he adds, “Now, if I could only rest . . .”
Despite his rigid stance, Skartovius says nothing about Garro’s misspeak and gently settles him onto his back, right there on the floor in the study room. When the nobleblood stands to his full height, I join him. We’re on opposite sides of Garroway’s prone body.
Skar steps over him and moves to leave the room—
But he has to get past me to do it, and I’m not going to let him pass without speaking my mind.
I put a hand on his chest, Skar’s eyes downcast. “Just going to use him and leave him, eh, Lord Ashfen? Because he is your thrall and expendable?”
“Careful, temptress,” Skar warns through gritted teeth.
He raises his face to meet my stern glare.
I nearly backpedal from shock at the sight of him.
For the first time I’ve ever seen, there isshamewritten on every smooth plane of his sinfully handsome visage. The mask of perfection he summons so well is temporarily shattered, eyebrows twitching, clearly perturbed.
Before my mouth can fall open, I clench my jaw, unwilling to let him pity his way out of this. “Never again,” I demand. “Not until we know more about his ability and how far he can stretch it. Understand?”
He grits his teeth. His back goes straight, rigid as he listens to my words. It’s a command, and Lord Skartovius Ashfen of Manor Marquin is not simplycommandedby anyone.
“Understood, my queen.”
His low voice baffles me so completely, tilts my world so efficiently, that he’s already past me and out the door before I can blink and turn after him, gawking.
Something deep-rooted climbs up my spine, unlocking comprehension I didn’t have until now.
Compliance, I think, echoing Skar’s words from earlier. A devious smile of my own, wicked enough to match Skar’s, stretches across my face.Two can play at that game, Lord Ashfen . . . when I am the queen of your castle.
Chapter 18
Vallan
“Tell me about this . . . Loreblood,” Master Barnabac orders from his sturdy chair, waving a hand loosely in the air around his face.
The overlord has been calling me more often lately, invading my mind with his incessant words. Belittling me, calling me unworthy of the Craxon crest and the ancient blood that runs through my veins thanks to him.
This stocky vampire lord—a nobleblood by all accounts, though he prefers the life of a soldier—took everything from me. With no children of his own, he created a legion blessed by the Damned, and continues to conscript champions into his flock with every soul he turns.
I have thirty-five “brothers” and “sisters” at last count. Could be more these days, I don’t know. All of us are Barnabac’s bloody kin, his Red Spawn, though I don’t know my “kin” well. I haven’t even bothered to learn some of their names. On my way into the Red Butcher’s fortress, three of them training in the courtyard sneered at me, spitting on the ground as I passed.
I am not beloved here because I hardly show my face. I don’t worship the ground Master Barnabac walks on, unlike most the others, which hasn’t gained me many allies in the Military Ward. I’m too busy scheming with Skartovius behind everyone’s back.
