Page 129 of Claimed

EIRA

I wake alone in Valentin Moretti’s bed.

The sheets are absurdly soft and tangled around my legs. My body feels heavy in that strange, drugged way sleep sometimes leaves behind when it was less invitation and more command. My throat is tender but whole and my tongue works when I press it to the back of my teeth. I don’t mind the residual taste of Valentin’s blood but I don’t love that my mouth tastes faintly of Rowan’s potion and the kind of dread that seems to have taken up permanent residence under my ribs.

The bond is quiet.

That’s the first thing I notice after the room and the dim red pulse of the fractured Heartshard Glass.

Valentin is not in my head.

His presence exists somewhere beyond the walls, faint and dark, but distant enough that I can breathe without feeling him brush every thought. Maybe he has closed the bond, deliberately giving me space. He’s in another part of the Tower making plans, threatening witches, probably terrifying his Twelve, or staring broodingly at broken artefacts because apparently emotional processing is for mortals and lesser monsters.

I sit up slowly, relieved when my limbs obey.

Good.

The urge to stab someone has also returned.

Even better.

I grimace when memory gathers itself and rises.

Selphine in the war room with her hello, child and her face old, then young, then old again. What I also don’t love right now? Remembering her fucking power. She threw us all around like we were inconvenient furniture.

Then her almost-affection. Her fucking almost-regret.

I shove the covers aside and stand. My legs wobble once, then steady. I’m wearing another of Valentin’s shirts, unbuttoned at the throat, sleeves hanging past my hands. The room smells of him, dark wine and hot stone in rain. Blood. Ruin. Mine too, if I’m honest. I’ve bled in this room enough that the Tower should start charging me rent.

Across from the bed, the Heartshard Glass pulses.

The broken mirror dominates the wall, its fractured shards catching the low light, throwing red-black lines over the floor.

Before I can fully register it, I take a step towards it.

The shards brighten. ‘Oh fucking hell, don’t start,’ I mutter. ‘I’ve had enough mystical attitude this week.’

The Glass pulses again and my feet move closer still, compelled.

A whisper brushes the inside of my skull and I freeze.

The voice is colder than Valentin’s. Wilder.

Blood knows what mouths deny.

My breath catches. ‘Excuse me?’

The cracked surface ripples. In one shard, I see myself as I am now: bare legs, vampire shirt, hair mussed, eyes too large in a face that looks tired of surviving. In another shard, the reflection blurs. My hair looks longer. My face thinner. Younger. Terrified. A girl half-hidden by shadows in a bedroom six years ago.

My stomach drops. ‘No,’ I whisper.

The Glass answers without sound.

The hunted name circles the hunter.

My fingers curl into my palms. ‘If you’re trying to be helpful, perhaps consider plain English. Or plain ancient vampire cursed mirror. Whatever dialect makes you least annoying.’

The shard holding the younger reflection cracks brighter.