Page 47 of Claimed

Then fear comes.

‘Choose your next words,’ I say softly, ‘with greater devotion to staying alive.’

Wariness ripples through the Twelve, the corridor filling with the old readiness of men deciding whether they may have to restrain their king.

Orion’s blade – a rare sight since he prefers dismemberment with his bare hands – shifts a fraction in its sheath.

And through the bond, too quick for most to notice, one thought cuts across the others.

Maybe we need to summon the witch.

The world goes red.

My grip tightens, Luca chokes, and the wall gives another splintering crack.

No. Fucking. Witch. Not until I command it.

The warning is vicious enough to make every vampire in the corridor flinch.

‘Valentin.’ Through the chaos, Eira’s voice reaches me. Then her touch, warm and steady.

When I look down, her fingers are pressed against my sleeve, small, fragile compared to the violence locked in my body, and the sight of them does what commands, loyalty and blood-oaths cannot.

It reminds me I am holding one of mine by the throat hard enough to kill him.

Because they spoke against my little hunter. Because Luca had reminded me what I used to be, and my blood had rejected it before my mind could pretend otherwise.

Fuck.

I let go. He drops, coughs once before straightening with careful control as he wipes blood at the corner of his mouth.

Eira’s grip remains on my arm. I let it. And for three breaths, no one speaks.

Then I turn away. ‘Move.’

No one argues.

We descend beneath the polished levels of the Tower, past marble, art and money and the acceptable face of power, into the older stone below. The dungeon waits, an unvarnished medieval reminder of what the modern world has failed to civilise out of me.

Eira’s gaze flicks to the narrowing corridors, the security doors, the shadows sitting too comfortably in the corners. ‘You have a dungeon?’

‘Doesn’t every vampire worthy of the name?’

‘That’s… comforting.’

‘It should be. It means I plan.’

Inside the cell, Kessler shakes hard enough to make the chains on the wall rattle. The door shuts with finality. A dim light flickers on, revealing the mortal who thought ambition made him brave.

Shame it has only made him disposable.

He is pale and sweaty now, all polish stripped away. His mouth opens and shuts without producing anything useful.

Malachi’s expression is hard. ‘He’ll break easily. Almost too easily.’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘But not before he understands what he has done.’

Eira’s attention lingers on the cell door.