She’d been twenty then, all soft laughter and fearless wonder. Now she was all woman, her beauty sharpened by confidence she may not realize she wore. There was a steadiness in her spine that hadn’t existed before, and yet a flicker of that same old nervous habit, her thumb rubbing her opposite palm.
Every small thing about her struck with cruel precision. The faint golden flecks in her eyes. The curl at the corner of her mouth when she tried not to smile. The single loose strand of hair she hadn’t managed to tame.
Mine.
I crushed the primitive thought fast.
She wasn’t mine. Not anymore.
“Your Majesty,” she said. Her curtsy was graceful but rushed, one hand still clutching her skirts as if she was unsure where to put herself.
I rose from my chair. “You’re late.”
Her chin lifted an inch. “You could’ve left a note.”
A ripple of shock passed through the room. Half the nobles looked like they might faint from her audacity.
Fates, I’d missed that mouth.
I gestured to the empty seat beside me. “It’s fine. You’re here now. Sit.”
She hesitated only a heartbeat before gliding toward me, all poise on the surface, nerves underneath. I felt the weight of every stare following her down the table.
As she passed my chair, her skirts grazed my thigh, a whisper of heat that made my breath catch. Our fingers touched, and something sparked. A faint shimmer of light, golden and warm, rippled across my palm before fading, like sunlight caught in mist.
My chest tightened. The subtle pulse of joy radiating from her tugged at something inside me I hadn’t realized was dormant for six long years.
She sat, and I followed. Our hands brushed as she reached for her napkin. A small, accidental contact, but my pulse thudded like it hadn’t in years. Contrary to popular belief, born vampires had a heartbeat.
She looked down fast, pretending to fix her place setting, but her pulse jumped beneath the delicate skin of her throat. I heard it. Every beat of her heart.
“Queen Cyrene,” I said, addressing her for the table’s benefit, “welcome to your first meal at Shadowborne.”
“Thank you. I’ll try not to ruin it.”
A laugh escaped me. It earned me several scandalized glances from my relatives.
“Impossible,” I said softly, just for her.
She stilled, her lashes lifting in surprise, a flicker of something uncertain in her gaze. Hope, maybe. Or confusion. Then she turned to her plate and pretended not to hear the collective disapproval rolling across the table.
Lady Aragorn leaned forward, her jeweled fingers lacing together. “Queen Cyrene, your gown is…charming. We so rarely see silk that isn’t black here. It’s rathercheerful.”
Rathley’s laugh showed pure venom. “Yes, positively radiant. I suppose witches don’t have to worry about blending in.”
“They blend in when they choose to,” I said before Cyrene could speak. “Though I’ll admit, she does make the rest of us look lifeless.”
A hush fell. My advisors blinked in tandem, unsure if they’d just been insulted or complimented. Cyrene hid a smile behind her hand.
The staff arrived in a silent procession, silver trays balanced on gloved hands. Large crystal goblets of blood were placed in front of each vampire, the liquid inside thick and as dark as garnet.
Cyrene’s eyes widened as the scent filled the air. She blinked down at the table, clearly trying to process what she was seeing.
Only one servant delivered food, a plate of pastries and scrambled eggs they placed in front of Cyrene. She blinked at the plate for a moment, noting nothing in front of me, before she lifted her fork.
“Please, dine,” I said.
Lady Aragorn and Lord Rathley were the first to grab their goblets, tipping them back and gulping down the contents. Rathley sighed loudly as he drank. Lady Aragorn moaned.
