Page 165 of Claimed

There he is. The victorious bastard.

Within twenty minutes, we are back in his war room above, clothed because even triumph apparently has boundaries, though Valentin’s shirt remains open enough to show the new silver-dark lattice at his throat. I’m wrapped in black silk, barefoot, still weak, and seated in his lap because he refuses to let me stand for more than thirty seconds.

The Heartshard Glass glows a low, living silver. Not red.

The five-segment circle remains inside it, but New York no longer pulses black. Its section shines dark silver, steady and whole. The other territories sit dim around it, waiting.

Valentin opens the blood-call and four faces form inside the mirror.

Rafe Navarro appears first, all dark intensity and Chicago menace. Dorian Vale arrives lounging in silk, pale and beautiful and predictably irritating. Ciaran O’Rourke’s face comes into focus with wild hair, furious eyes and the look of a man who already regrets answering. Lucien De Santis appears last, haughty and cold, Sicilian darkness wrapped in elegance.

They all look at Valentin. Then at me, then at Valentin’s throat.

Dorian speaks first, because of course he does. ‘How obscene. He survived.’

Valentin smiles. And it is magnificent. ‘I did more than survive… brother.’

Rafe’s eyes narrow. Ciaran leans closer.

Lucien’s nostrils flare once. ‘It is true then,’ he rasps, voice scratchy as if from disuse. ‘You found your fated mate? And the bond took.’

‘Yes, to all of it,’ Valentin replies.

Dorian sighs. ‘Insufferable already.’

‘Already?’ I murmur.

Valentin’s fingers close over mine beneath the table. ‘Allow me to introduce you to my mate, Lyra Hannigan. Eira Cross.’

The names move through the call.

Ciaran’s brows rise. Rafe’s expression changes by a fraction I can’t read. Dorian’s smile sharpens with real interest. Lucien inclines his head slowly.

‘Your runaway,’ Dorian says.

‘My hunter,’ Valentin corrects, with enough warning to make even Dorian’s eyes glitter.

‘Both,’ I add.

Valentin looks at me. And I lift a brow. He looks back at the mirror, and repeats, ‘Both.’

The correction matters. More than it should.

Ciaran’s gaze darts around, searching. Rowan, who stands near the wall out of sight of the Irish Five Blood, pretends not to be part of this family drama and fails.

‘Where is my witch?’

Valentin stays silent, his hand curling harder into my hip, drawing me into the thick pole of his cock. I keep my own mouth shut before I do something disgraceful. Like moan.

After several heartbeats, Rowan’s mouth flattens. ‘Your witch is standing here regretting several bargains.’

Ciaran’s face turns rage red. Then he visibly relaxes. ‘Are you… well?’

Her eyes flash. ‘As long as you’re alive? No. So do everyone a favour and expire already, hmm?’

Ciaran smiles slowly, his face filling with savage anticipation. He doesn’t need to speak the words for everyone to hear it, loud and clear. I’m coming for you.

Ooooh, shivers.