But I’m noticing her.
She has golden hair and adorable features. Wide eyes the color of summer sky and soft, kissable lips. She’s dressed in the standard staff uniform — simple blue and white — but on her it looks entirely different. The modest neckline reveals the pale column of her throat, and I find my gaze drawn there, to the delicate pulse point beneath her jaw.
Something is wrong with me.
I have just left the Council of Elders where they informed me, in no uncertain terms, that I will be marrying Princess Serina within the year. Serina is a female I’ve known my entire life and with whom I feel absolutely nothing for, not even friendship.
My fate has been sealed by a room full of Krovenians who care more about pure bloodlines than whether their king might want to feel something for his queen. I knew this would eventually happen, considering they were tired of waiting for me to mate with someone appropriate.
I’ve watched other Krovenians experience the Blood Calling — that instant, overwhelming recognition of a true mate. I’ve heard the stories, read the poetry and witnessed the obsession firsthand. But I’ve never personally understood. Yes, my parents lucked out and had a proper Blood Calling for each other, but they were the first royals in a century to feel such true passion. Generations of controlled breeding, politically arranged unions and purity above passion has perhaps caused this ability to be almost bred out of us.
I am the King of Krovenia, the leader of my species, therefore, I will follow the ancient breeding rituals. I will marry Serina and take the elixir that makes such unions physically possible. I will produce heirs with a female who feels like a distant acquaintance. I will do my duty, as every king before me has done.
This is my fate. I accepted it long ago.
All of this runs through my mind as I gaze upon the luscious new maid. I step into the room and inhale without thinking — perhaps a habit, scenting for threats — and the world tilts sideways.
The scent of her blood hits like a wall of flame.
My fangs throb and lengthen.
No.
No, this is not possible.
After thirty-two years of assuming I would live and die without ever understanding what the human and Krovian poets wrote about — the Blood Calling has found me.
And it has chosen ahuman?
The human maid who is currently rifling through my personal desk.
Rage and desire crash together in my chest, so tangled I cannot separate them. My body wants to move toward her and put my mouth on that soft throat and taste what I’m scenting, but my mind screams that this is inappropriate, a disaster of unprecedented proportions.
The council just ordered me to marry a princess, but my blood has chosen an unknown human?
Her face cycles through a variety of emotions as she stares at me. She has the look of someone who’s been caught doing something she shouldn’t. Is she a spy? The thought surfaces through the haze of want. Who is this woman? What is she in my private study, going through my personal effects?
“Um…as you can see, I am putting it back—” She fumbles the photograph back into the desk.
Her voice is the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard. I clench my jaw so hard my fangs ache. “What are you doing at my desk?” The words come out cold and controlled. I must keep myself from crossing this room and doing something unforgivable.
“I was cleaning, Your um, maj—” She hesitates, clearly trying to remember my title. “—sir? I was just cleaning and I?—”
“You were not cleaning.” I step closer before I can stop myself. My body wants to be near her. My body is a traitor. “You were going through my personal belongings.”
She steps back, and something dark and possessive rears up in my chest at the retreat.Don’t run from me.The thought is primitive and terrifying.
“No. I mean—the photograph was?—”
“Did you also ‘dust’ the inside of my desk drawer?”
Her face flushes. The color spreads down her throat, and I track it with my eyes like a predator watching prey. Does this human react to me, as I react to her?
She reaches back to close the drawer and her elbow catches the edge of a crystal decanter. Time seems to slow. I watch the vessel wobble, tip, and shatter against the stone floor. A hundred-year-old Krovenian whiskey splashes across the ancient rug. Glass shards scatter everywhere.
The human stares at the mess at her feet. “Oh my gosh. Oh wow, I am so sorry, I?—”
“Enough,” I growl. I need her out of this room before I do something I cannot take back. The scent of her is everywhere now, mixed with the sharp bite of whiskey, and my control is fraying by the second. My fangs won’t retract. My hands want to reach for her. Every instinct I possess is screaming at me to toss her over my shoulder and carry her to my bed.
