Page 79 of Claimed

Rowan eyes the ruined table. ‘Hmm. And yet, there’s the distinction you were pretending did not exist.’

I turn on her, fangs down, mark burning, power crowding my skin. ‘Do not mistake necessity for attachment.’

‘I’m not the one making mistakes, old friend.’

I want to deny every word she has spoken. I want to rush below, seize Eira’s fucking throat and demand why she would carry an old witch’s poison to me, yet look at me with terror and still refuse to give me truth.

Then… then… I want to drink from her.

Demons… the wanting arrives with such force it steals the next breath. And beneath the rage, beneath the betrayal, something bright and shameful opens.

Vastly unwelcome relief.

That she must remain alive. Because she is necessary.

She is, for the moment, permitted by logic to be kept breathing, guarded, beyond the reach of anyone who thinks her death would simplify my world.

Relief is followed by elation so sharp I nearly stagger.

Netheris fires.

I turn away from Rowan before she sees too much, though I know I am too late.

Her voice is quiet. ‘Am I right?’

‘Silence.’

‘You’re relieved because my answer gives you a reason to stay your hand.’

I look at her over my shoulder.

The smile she offers is thin as a knife. ‘How fortunate for you, Vampire King, to discover that mercy can be disguised as strategy.’

I summon through the Tower with a snap of will.

Bring me blood.

The command travels hard enough to make several minds recoil. I do not care.

Rowan’s brows rise. ‘Is this what you’re resorting to? Petty defiance?’

‘You’re wrong. This is control. Perhaps you’ve been in hiding far too long to recognise it.’

‘Bagged blood will not solve this.’

‘It will prove I remain capable of choosing what enters my body.’

‘And if it fails?’

‘Then you had better make your rituals swift.’

A valet arrives within minutes, pale and silent, carrying chilled blood in crystal decanters and sealed medical bags as if presenting wine. He does not look at Rowan or the shattered table. He sets everything down and retreats with admirable survival instinct.

I take the first bag and drink. The blood is high quality. Human.

Empty.

Warmth enters my body without depth. Strength stirs without clarity. My hunger watches from behind my ribs, unimpressed, waiting for the only taste it now craves.