“That’s the idea.”
“I think it’s nice. I mean, it’s very polished. You look really… clean.”
I was very conscious of all the eyes on me. It was too easy to be myself with Mische. My words could be casual, but my body language had to stay consistent—I was the Nightborn King.
And yet, at this, I had to clench my jaw hard to swallow my laugh.
“Clean,” I choked.
Mische threw up her hands in a gesture of, Well, what the hell do you want me to say?
“You do.”
“Thank you, Mische. When I have all these nobles blowing smoke up my ass, it’s nice to have you to bring me back down.”
She patted my shoulder. “You’re welcome.”
Then she followed my gaze—to Vale and Lilith, now whispering and chuckling to each other like they were the only ones in this ballroom.
A soft smile spread over Mische’s lips. “They’re cute,” she said.
“Mm. Cute.”
Maybe. I wasn’t sure I was convinced yet.
Her eyes narrowed. “What’s the grunting for?”
“Nothing.”
She knew, of course. For a moment, we both watched them.
“I think it’s real,” she declared at last. “I think he loves her.”
I gave her a look. She gave me one back.
“What? You think that because he did some bad things two hundred years ago, he’s not capable of love?”
Capable of loving a Turned woman? Capable of loving a human? I fucking doubted it. Even if the evidence before me was, I’d admit, disconcertingly compelling.
“Maybe,” I said.
“I’ve got to believe in love, Raihn. The world is sad enough.”
My eyes slipped to the other side of the ballroom, to the one painting that still remained from Vincent’s reign. That lone Rishan man, falling to his death, reaching for something that was never going to reach back.
I made a noncommittal sound and then cleared my throat, straightening my back.
“I don’t need to be nannied over,” I said, motioning to the banquet tables. “Go eat. If I know you, you’ve been mentally undressing that feast since you walked into the room.”
She giggled. “Maybe a little.”
She moved to kiss me on the cheek, and I quickly moved away, disguising the movement as me picking up my wine glass again.
Because Simon Vasarus had just walked into this party, and suddenly, I was infinitely aware of every appearance.
Still, even with that distraction, the flicker of hurt on Mische’s face twisted in my gut.
“I have to be careful,” I muttered, casting a pointed look. She followed my gaze, and her face hardened.
“Is that him?”
The words were cold with hatred.
I didn’t answer. I rearranged every muscle into the careful facade—a facade, I distantly realized, of Neculai. I didn’t allow myself to look directly at Simon. But I could feel his stare on me. Could feel him approaching. Sensed his proximity like I was being stalked.
I hated that he made me feel that way.
“Go,” I said to Mische, more firmly than I meant to, but suddenly the last thing in the world that I wanted was for Simon to notice her existence.
She slipped away to the banquet table, and I remained, perfectly nonchalant, as Simon and his wife, Leona, approached me. The room seemed to quiet—everyone knew what they were witnessing. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Cairis move so-very-casually into position behind me. Vale’s gaze, too, seared through me like a spear.
“Highness.”
That voice, and that word, brought me back two-hundred years. The way he’d used it on Neculai—always with such syrup-sweet deference, always a thank you for some gift or some invitation or some feast. Sometimes a thank you for me.
At last, I allowed my gaze to turn to them.
Simon was old now. He had been almost as old as Neculai back in those days, and centuries had passed since then. Still, he was a vampire, not human—his age showed only in a few streaks of silver in his hair, in the distant, ageless coldness in his eyes. He’d survived some hard times. Maybe he was leaner than he was back then, but then again, it was never his size that made him a threat.
His hair was longer now, falling to his shoulders. He kept the beard, in similar style to Neculai, even after all these years—a few flecks of gray mixed in with the brown. He’d gotten new clothes for this occasion, it seemed. He was well dressed, as was Leona, a tall, slender, raven-haired woman at his arm.
Even though I had braced myself, seeing them so close drew forth a violent reaction—a physical sensation that seized me in a firm, sudden grip.
It had been a long time since I had experienced fear this way, so primally. I wrenched it back immediately, but maybe it was too late—for a moment I was so fucking sure he had to have smelled it on me.
I shoved that fear down deep, deep, and poured my hatred all over it. I thought of Oraya and her furious face and the way she spat in the eyes of things that could kill her with a flick of their fingers.
I couldn’t lie to myself and say I had all that courage. But I could pretend I did.
I gave Simon and Leona a pleasant, lazy smile. “Welcome, Simon. Been awhile. I’m glad you could make the journey at last.”
I could practically feel Cairis’s glare at the back of my head for that snipe. But hell, let Simon deal with a little bait. See if he snaps.
“It’s an honor to be here tonight,” he said.
And then they bowed.
Low bows. Proper bows.
The entire room seemed to exhale.
I regarded him coldly as he rose.
I was supposed to hope that Simon did not remember me very well. And maybe he didn’t—I was just one slave after all, one unremarkable body to be used. For the sake of my position as king, it was in my best interest to hope that these powerful people didn’t remember those days as well as I did—that they did not remember what I looked like on my knees.
Pettily, a part of me now hoped he did remember, and I hoped he was thinking about it just now, when he bowed to me.
“Apologies that we haven’t made it to Sivrinaj sooner, Highness,” he said. “An old man gets stuck in his old ways.”
Neculai still would’ve killed him without thinking twice for spurning his invitations, and I really, really hated that I didn’t have that option.
My voice came out in a low, cold growl as I said, “You’re very fortunate I’m in a forgiving mood.”
A damn near perfect mimicry of Neculai.
Simon betrayed nothing, but I didn’t miss a faint flicker on Leona’s face. Just a hint of disgust.
Cairis touched my shoulder, pulling me away. “Look,” he murmured.
I glanced at the entrance, where the servants now gave polite bows.
The House of Shadow.
It was easy to recognize them immediately—by the dark, heavy, tight-fitting clothing, the wisps of shadow that followed their movements.
This was the real test. I straightened and left Simon and Leona without another word, crossing the room to receive the Shadowborn prince.