“Other women? Oh no, miss—not like this.”
“Not like what?”
She snorts softly.
“Well, for starters, not human. An’ not installed.”
“Installed?” I repeat faintly.
“Yes, Miss.” She gestures vaguely around the room. “The Master’s always ‘ad blood slaves brought through—regular as clockwork for feedin’ and all. He’s a Thirstborn so he ‘as to ‘ave blood, you see. But he’s never kept a woman here. Never mind a human one.”
She leads me to a mirror and begins brushing my hair with gentle efficiency.
“Truth be told, we always thought ‘im cold as marble. Scary as sin, too.”
My heart does a weird little flip in my chest.
“And now?” I ask her.
She smiles at my reflection.
“Now ‘e’s tellin’ all the servants they’re to treat you with deference. That you’re our Queen. That no one’s to so much as breathe wrong in your direction. Utterly besotted, he is.” She clicks her tongue. “Never seen ‘im like this before.”
Utterly besotted? Does she mean…in love?
The words echo in my head, terrifying and impossible. There’s no way Lucian is that gone on me—is there?
The maid works quickly, twisting my hair into an elaborate style—soft curls pinned up and away from my face, woven with subtle jeweled pins that catch the light. When she’s done, she steps back, satisfied.
“There you go, miss. Perfect.”
She curtsies again and slips out, leaving me alone with my reflection.
I turn slowly toward the mirror.
It’s enormous—floor to ceiling, framed in black carved stone etched with roses and skulls. The glass is old and slightly warped, making everything look dreamlike.
The woman staring back at me looks like a stranger. Her hair is styled beautifully, and her dress hugs her curves just right. Her posture is straighter and on her face I see an expression that is wary but strong.
She looks like a Queen—or at least someone pretending very hard to be one.
I press a hand to my stomach again, feeling another faint twinge.
This is really happening, I think. And I have no idea what comes next.
36
Jules
Lucian comes for me sooner than I expect.
One minute I’m still standing in front of that enormous gothic mirror, staring at my own reflection like it might suddenly make sense. The next, there’s a soft knock at the bedroom door and it opens without me answering.
Lucian steps inside, immaculate as ever in his tailored suit, like the entire concept of stress can’t touch him. He fills the doorway—tall, broad, and powerful—his presence making the room feel smaller just by existing in it.
He takes me in, his eyes going half-lidded as they sweep over me from head to toe. The wine-red dress…the swooping up-do…the jeweled hairpins catching the firelight.
For a moment, something dark and hungry flickers across his face—so fast I almost convince myself I imagined it. Then he inclines his head, formal and calm.
