I looked like him.
The resemblance struck me all at once, suddenly undeniable. The coloring was all different, of course, my hair night-black compared to Vincent’s blond. But we had the same icy pallor to our skin. The same flat brow, the same silver eyes.
He spent an entire fucking lifetime lying about what was plainly painted on my face.
But then again, that was our entire relationship. He’d raised me to look at the bars of my cage and call them trees.
And then, finally, my eyes drifted down, past the curve of my jaw, to the very exposed column of my throat. To the two sets of scars there—one I had asked for, one that I hadn’t.
When I went to the door, I left the mantle on the floor.
36
RAIHN
I’d give him this: Cairis was a hell of a party planner. Somehow, within a court plagued by unpopularity, indecision, power struggles, and two ongoing civil wars, he’d still managed to throw together a wedding celebration that looked as if it was held by the grandest of Nightborn dynasties. He’d transformed the castle into an embodiment of peak Rishan leadership. One would never guess that two weeks ago, the place had been stripped bare, caught awkwardly in the transition of a coup.
No, it now looked just like it had two hundred years ago, just newer—right down to the flower arrangements. Someone else might have been surprised that he’d remembered all that detail, but I understood it. I’d been right there beside him, after all. Lots of time to study the details when you’re desperate for something to distract you through the worst nights.
I couldn’t afford to be distracted right now, even though I wanted to be. Neculai Vasarus would not have been distracted—he’d be reveling in this shit. I wasn’t him, but still, I slipped into the role the same way I slipped into the too-tight jacket Cairis had dressed me in—awkwardly, but with enough confidence to make it look like second nature.
The position of every single muscle was intentional—the straight back, the raised chin, the loose, casual grip on my bloodstained wine glass, the steely stare with which I surveyed the ballroom.
The feast had begun. The nobles had started to arrive. All was, so far, going as it should. I kept waiting for someone to flaunt their disrespect. It didn’t happen.
But Simon Vasarus still had not arrived.
Neither had Oraya, though I’d been assured by an openly irritated Cairis that she was coming. Nothing was easy with that woman. It was kind of comforting.
I leaned against the wall and took a sip from my glass. Human blood, of course—it had to be human blood for an event like this, Cairis was insistent upon that—but all from well-compensated blood vendors, and blended with vampire blood and deer blood. More blood vendors would be joining the feast later in the night to offer fresh delicacies too. I’d tripled their pay when no one was paying attention, and commanded Ketura to keep a close eye on them. I knew she’d do it. Ketura was prickly, but unlike most members of my court, she didn’t seem to view my views on humans to be some sort of semi-endearing, semi-irritating eccentricity to be managed.
I’d rather they not be here at all. But change, I had to remind myself, came in small steps. This party had to convince a lot of important, terrible bastards that I was one of them.
So far, it was looking the part.
The blood was sweet and flat, slightly bitter with the added alcohol. Biology meant that human blood would always taste good to me—no moral stance could change that. It seemed like a fucking injustice that human blood, even taken against someone’s will, would always taste good, while a perfectly seasoned steak now tasted like ash unless it was bloody-rare.
Still, since the Kejari, even human blood didn’t hold the same appeal. It tasted… one-note. Either too savory or too cloying.
Since the Kejari.
No, since a certain cave, and a certain woman, and a slew of tastes and sounds and sensations that I’d probably be chasing for the rest of my damned life.
I swirled the blood around in the glass and my eyes fell to my thumb—the faint jagged mark on the pad, mostly healed.
I didn’t want to admit how many times I’d looked at that mark these last few days.
How many times I’d thought about the exact sensation of Oraya’s tongue against my skin. And fuck, the look of primal pleasure on her face—that was something I could drink up for the rest of my life.
It was pathetic, the things I clung to with her. The soft, hungry press of her tongue. The lash-flutter of pleasure. The moan when I’d touched her wings, the way her legs had fallen open, the way her back had arched—the way she’d fucking smelled, so aroused, like she—
Ix’s tits. What was wrong with me?
I snapped myself out of that train of thought with another long drink. I wished there was more alcohol in it. I craved beer. Human beer.
Another set of nobles arrived and bowed before me. I gave them impassive stares, polite greetings, and waved them away, accepting their submission as I should—like a king who expected nothing less.
They glided across the ballroom to pay their respects to the couple of honor. Vale accepted their congratulations as I had, while Lilith stood somewhat awkwardly at his side. Cairis had told her, a little rudely, not to talk if she could at all help it, and she was following his orders for the most part. Still, every time a guest walked away, she would whisper in Vale’s ear excitedly—no doubt peppering him with constant questions.
Vale didn’t seem to mind, though. Seventy years with the man and I’d never seen him smile so much.
I watched them, frowning, brow furrowed.
“You’re staring.”
Mische’s voice almost made me jump.
I glanced at her and did a double take.
She grinned, spinning around.
“Right? Cairis let me pick it out myself.”
She looked like a literal ray of sunshine. Metallic gold fabric wrapped around her body, the skirt layered and flaring more than typical House of Night style usually dictated. It had no embroidery, no accents, but what it lacked in decoration it made up for in that brilliant color, extra striking against the bronze of her skin. It was sleeveless, the neckline open. She wore a pair of long black gloves that reached her upper arms—I couldn’t help but linger on those, knowing why she was wearing them.
Even her face glittered—gold over her eyelids and dotting on her cheeks, complementing her freckles.
I’m sure she expected some kind of dismissive joke. But maybe I was an old sap after all, because I couldn’t bring myself to make one. It had been a while since I’d seen Mische shining. It was nice.
So I said, honestly, “You look fantastic, Mish.”
She beamed, cheeks glittering.
“I do, right?”
I chuckled. “So humble.”
She shrugged. “Why should I be humble?”
Hell, why should she?
She looked me up and down. “You look… uh… kingly.”
Her tone, rightfully, did not indicate that to be a compliment.