She adjusted her collar, graceful even in near-strangulation. “I felt it, you know,” she said. “The moment you woke. That awful bond of yours burned through me. I’ve always been attuned to you, darling. Unfortunately. So, I had to see for myself. And yes—here you are. Very much awake. Very much doomed.”
I stepped closer. “You will tell no one.”
She tilted her head, feigning offense. “Oh, Cristian. You think I gossip?”
“You live to gossip.”
“That’s rude.” She pouted. “And accurate.”
“Ambrosia,” I warned.
Her eyes gleamed with something sharp and satisfied. “Relax. I won’t telleveryone.Only the people who’ll make it entertaining.”
Before I could reach for her again, her body began to dissolve, the edges of her form unraveling into mist.
“Goodnight, my little rebellion,” she purred. “Do send my regards to your human.”
In a dark flutter of wings, and a trail of perfume that smelled faintly of roses and malice, she was gone.
I stared after her, jaw tight. “Of course, she still flies.”
The street was silent again. The anger that had slept beside me all these years stirred awake, crawling through my bones.
The Sovereign Court knew I was awake.
I was not safe.
And worse—Nadia was not safe.
I dreamed that night.
I despised dreaming. It was a habit of mortals, of men with hope. But sleep had never been restful for me—it was simply another kind of prison.
Tonight, the prison bled.
I tossed, the sheets twisting around me like restraints. A sharp pressure built behind my ribs, spreading outward. The bond pulsed, warning me that something was wrong, but I couldn’t wake.
The air changed. My eyes opened—or I thought they did—and I was standing in the ballroom of my ancestral manor. The walls were velvet. The chandeliers dripped blood. Violins floated in the air, playing Vivaldi—badly.
“Gods preserve me. She’s here.”
From the shadows, the nightmare took form.
Ambrosia glided forward in a gothic gown so elaborate it could have bankrupted a small kingdom. The black lace and crimson corset displayed cleavage that had never once been subtle.
“Oh, Cristian…” she sighed, voice trembling with tragic romance. “My brooding, wounded stallion…”
I backed away slowly, dread pooling in my gut.
Anything but this.Ambrosia had the terribly unfortunate power of controlling dreams.
I tried to summon control of the dream—bend it, shatter it—but she was already giggling, skipping toward me like a demented debutante.
“You looked at me so intensely earlier when we spoke,” she purred. “Do you remember Paris, 1603? You said my presence was ‘tolerable.’”
“I also said your presence was headache-inducing.”
She ignored that. “I brought your favorite—goat blood with a twist of laudanum! Don’t make me drink it all alone… again.”
