“Firstly, because Ihavebeen ‘doing things.’ Second, vampires don’t like change, andIam the change that they don’t like. So ergo, they are trying to dispatch me before I do any more…things.”
She scoffed. “That won’t turn back time!”
Kendrick said dryly, “They don’t seem to have realized that yet. However, I am interested by your assertion.”
She paused. “Why is that?” she asked slowly.
“It may not be what the rest of the Ossuary believes, but I think it is whatyoubelieve. What is it that I am not doing, Miss Dryden?”
Her pent-up irritation with his tenure so far as ruler warred with her survival instincts, ones who screamed standing up to male vampires and telling them they were wrong only invited pain and suffering.
Irritation won.
“It’s your laws,” she finally forced through her teeth.
Amusement glinted in his eyes. “My laws?”
“Yes.”
“What about them?”
“You haven’t made any.”
His head jerked back.
Genevieve forged ahead before he could resume his arrogant, vaguely amused air. “You have ousted the previous master, true, and you keep order, but so do occupying armies. You have made us no oaths. We have nothing to depend on.”
He tilted his head to the side. “What oaths would you like, Miss Dryden?”
“At the veryleast? An assurance of peace, prohibiting all ranks of men from wrongful deeds, and justice and mercy in all judgments. And that is the bare minimum.” Genevieve clenched her firsts. “Binding yourself to keep your own laws would not go amiss, either. Kings should not be exempt from justice.”
He asked gently, “Do you think me unwilling to make such oaths?”
She threw out a hand. “I don’t know! None of us know! You are a stranger to us. And we have gottenlessthan nothing for all the years that I have been a vampire! I havenotknown peace, and wrongful deeds still persist, andwhereis the justice and mercy? Where is it?”
“Miss Dryden?—”
“What is thepointof you?” she demanded. “If all you plan to do is enforce the status quo that we have had for years and which has helped no one and hurt many, go ahead and fall on your sword, let those assassins overtake you. See if I care.”
She choked to a halt. At some point in her tirade, she had reached out and seized him by the open collar of his shirt, the better to rage at him. Her hand was fisted in the material, and she stood close enough that she could feel the heat of him through his clothes.
Vampires were not supposed to be warm.
What had she done? She had behaved as if she were still Genevieve Dryden, confirmed bluestocking and daughter of Ezra Dryden, tutor, writer, and expert in ancient languages for Oxford students, able to speak her mind to any man who condescended to her.
“I—I’m sorry,” she forced out. She unclenched her hand from around the fine linen and stared at the crisp, curling hair that showed through the partially undone plackets, the skin that somehow still carried the memory of the sun, even centuries later.
She had never touched a man like that. Not since—well, she had never touched a man like that.
Kendrick intercepted her hand and held it loosely in his own. She stared at her glove—dingy, and with that hole coming through—held in his broad, capable hand, hair curling where his cuffs were turned back. “You don’t have to retreat from me, Miss Dryden. I was telling the truth when I said I only smite people who try to kill me first.”
Genevieve swallowed under the weight of very male interest. She could recognize looks of desire, but usually, they carried an element of superiority. As if bestowing their interest on her was a favor.
This man stared at her like he beheld a queen and a conundrum all at once. It made her knees shake.
“My experience has been that vampires do not like women who talk back.”
His face darkened. “I would never hurt a woman.”
