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Even my guards stare. Guards who have served me for decades, who have seen the same horrors I have. Who have learned to flatten every emotion. Their eyes are locked on a field of impossible green that fills the air with the scent of life they have forgotten existed.

Alessia lifts her head.

The thin red line that has been trickling from her nose thickens into a steady flow, dark against her pale skin. A second line appears from the corner of her left eye, and her body sways. The trembling in her arms that I have been feeling through the bond intensifies. The light beneath the soil, the pulsing gold that has been feeding this impossible harvest, flickers once and goes dark.

One moment I am standing at the edge of the field, and the next I am beside her. My arms close around her body as she drops. Blood paints her face in dark wet lines from her nose and tear ducts. It runs into the creases at the corners of her mouth and drips from her jaw onto my arm. Her lips are parted, and her breathing is shallow. I press my fingers to her throat and find her pulse. It’s a faint flutter against my fingertips that stutters every few beats and makes my own heart lurch in response.

The crowd surges forward, only they aren’t the same hostile mob from the streets.

“Is she breathing?”

“Someone help her!”

“The mage! Is the mage alive?”

Eagan’s voice cuts through the noise. “Back! Everyone back. Give the king room!” He is beside me now, his hand resting on my shoulder, his red eyes scanning Alessia’s face. The guards respond to his command when the crowd doesn’t, forming a perimeter around us and pushing the humans back with firm hands.

I bite into my own wrist, and the pain is sharp but brief. I press my wrist to her mouth. The blood touches her lips, sliding between them and pooling against her teeth. It runs over her tongue as I wait for the involuntary swallow that will pull it into her body. Allowing it to do what vampire blood does: heal what is broken.

The swallow doesn’t come. She is too far under, too deep in whatever void her consciousness has retreated to. My blood spills from the corner of her mouth and trails down her chin. The most powerful thing my body can offer, and it runs down her face because I cannot force her to swallow it this time.

I curse under my breath. Her head falls against my shoulder, and her blood soaks into my shirt. The crowd parts. Every person in that field moves aside as I carry her home.

The castle corridors blur past me, and I take the stairs two at a time with Eagan behind me. His footsteps match mine, and neither of us speaks until I lay her on the bed in my room.

“She’ll be fine,” he says. His voice is quiet. “She’s strong. Stronger than she knows. She is Liliana’s daughter, and Liliana survived worse than this . . .” He pauses. “Her body will adjust. The magic has been dormant for twenty years. The first time it wakes fully, it takes more than the body expects. The cost is high, but it isn’t fatal. Not for a mage of her bloodline. She needs rest. Nothing more.”

Wiping blood from her face, I sit on the edge of the bed beside her. “Kylian!” Eagan snaps, and I look at him. “She’ll be fine. She is . . .” His gaze moves to Alessia.

I peer down at her sweat slicked skin and swipe damp hair from her forehead. “Did you see . . .” I glance at Eagan, but he just shakes his head.

“I thought I saw . . .” His words trail off.

“Her mother,” I answer.

“What do you think it means?”

Right now I couldn’t care less. Right now all I care about is my queen.

Whether she accepts that title or fights it with every breath in her body, that is what she is.

CHAPTER 43

• Alessia •

MY BODY COMES back to me in pieces. Fingers first, then wrists.

A deep ache in my forearms travels upward through my shoulders and settles at the base of my skull. Everything hurts, and my magic feels spent. My body is exhausted beyond comprehension.

The room is dim, and Kylian is asleep in the high-backed chair with his head tilted against the wing of it. He has one arm draped across the armrest, and the other is resting on the bed beside my hip. He isn’t touching me, but he’s close enough that he could if he chose to.

His face looks different in sleep, and my heart flutters nervously. The shadows under his eyes are darker than I’ve ever seen them. Guilt floods me, knowing I am likely the cause of it, that and him not feeding from me in days. For some reason, that bothers me. Why hasn’t he asked? He told me he needs to feed daily, yet since being here, I’ve noticed that hunger for my blood doesn’t seem to be as maddening for him.

Carefully, I push myself upright. The room tilts sideways nauseatingly. The walls seem to press toward me and the ceiling drops too low. I grip the mattress and breathe through it until the world levels out and agrees to stop moving. My arms tremble but they hold. My legs feel like wet noodles when I swing them over the side of the bed, but when my feet touch the cold floor, I’m relieved to find they can still support me.

I find a heavy wool cloak of Kylian’s draped over the end of the bed, and I pull it around my shoulders, letting the weight settle against my body. It smells of him, and I inhale deeply, soaking up his scent before I catch myself.

Since when did I find the smell of him so comforting?