His pupils dilated as he licked his lips.
“Depends who provokes me.”
I punched his arm. “That’snotthe reassuring answer I was looking for.”
He caught my wrist, quick and firm, and for a second, his façade slipped, blue eyes meeting mine with raw intensity as he pulled me closer. “Don’t you start one either, Emberline.”
“Me?” I feigned innocence. “I’m the picture of diplomacy and grace.” I leaned in. “Besides, I only brought three knives.” I teased but lost my breath completely when his thumb stroked the tender inside of my wrist, a fleeting gesture that sent my pulse racing, more intimate than any kiss.
Then an attendant guided Dante away, toward a side door flanked by more guards, while Emilia tucked my arm through hers and steered me in the opposite direction.
“Come,” she said softly. “You are the queen of the night. Let them see the DiRavello princess who chose to wed the wild Dominico wolf.”
“I didn’t exactly have a choice,” I reminded her.
“No one ever does, child. That is thesecondrule of our Dynasty.”
39
EMBERLINE
My father liked to tell a story when I was small, his voice rumbling late into the night while the bells of Venice tolled the hours. Before the D’Immortali, there had been chaos—clans of violent vampires scattered across the isles, each carving out their territory through blood and fear.
Salvatore Dominico had not been the first vampire to try to bring order, but he had been the first to succeed. Rather than risk extermination at the hands of roaming vampire hunters and the expanding purges of the Church, he proposed a rigid structure—five familial bloodlines, all answering to a single ruling empire, overseen by a council.
He had invited the strongest leaders to the Sala del Giuramento, and there, under frescoes of ancient painted saints who gasped in horror at our kind, they drafted the foundational order of our violent, bloodthirsty species.
Five families. Five pillars upon which our Dynasty rested.
The Dominico Empire, to rule and judge by fist and will.
The DiRavello Court, to weave alliances with clever words and false promises.
The Draconi Brotherhood, to enforce Dynasty law with steel and fang.
The Demente Syndicate, to move in shadow and gather secrets.
And the DiSangue Order, to sanctify Dynasty will with rites and blood.
Break the Compact and your entire line would be hunted down and erased, your holdings seized, your progeny burned to ash. Erasure was brutal. Efficient.
And thankfully, rare.
I’d grown up trapped inside that rigid structure, and over time, had learned to respect the brutal economy of the system that kept us all safe.
My sire had taught me to read ledger books instead of fairy tales. How to smile at a rival while calculating exactly how much their death would profit us. I’d become adept at playing the role of Emberline DiRavello, the good daughter. Beautiful to a fault, quiet and poised, the picture of elegant breeding.
Tonight, I was Emberline Dominico.
A wolf in swan’s clothing, and I was trying to figure out how to play my new part.
“Emberline.” Emilia’s cold hand caught mine. “You remember my sons, Paulo and Vincenzo.” The two flanked her, both dark-haired and sharp-featured, gold—not tattooed—DiSangue sigils glinting at their throats.
“Of course.” I dipped my head respectfully. “It is nice to see you both. Thank you for welcoming us into your home.”
Emilia excused herself, saying something about checking on a guest.
Paolo’s sneering gaze swept over me, like one would study a piece of barely passable furniture. “You married up the food chain as it turns out. Your father would have been proud for forging such a…strong political alliance.”
