Page 84 of Claimed

I hate how fast hope moves as I turn towards the bars, every nerve sharpening, fury and dread tangling together.

The dungeon corridor brightens by degrees as two figures emerge from the shadows.

Crap. Not Valentin.

Malachi steps into view first, all severe beauty and controlled venom. Beside him is a vampire I’ve barely spoken to, broad-shouldered and dark-haired, with a face too handsome to be gentle and eyes the colour of wet slate.

Draven, if memory serves.

One of the unnamed shadows who became a name only after I started cataloguing the Twelve the way prey catalogues exits.

He doesn’t smile. And my instinct blares that it makes him worse than Malachi.

I fold my arms best as I can with chains dangling off my wrists. ‘If this is the dungeon turndown service, you’re late. Also the décor is hostile and the bedding lacks ambition.’

Malachi’s mouth curves. ‘Half a day in chains and still mouthy.’

‘Half a day?’ I glance at the wall as if offended by architecture. ‘Really? I was hoping your company only made it feel that long.’

Draven watches from the corner, silent as a blade left on a table.

I look from him to Malachi. ‘Is he here for atmosphere, or does he do tricks?’

‘He does truth,’ Malachi says.

My stomach cools. I keep my expression bored by sheer force of will. ‘Lovely. Does he invoice by the hour?’

Malachi steps closer to the bars. ‘You could end this with a few simple answers.’

‘Could I?’

‘Who is Selphine Rousseau?’

‘A witch.’

‘What did she do to the sire?’

I smile sweetly. ‘A lot less than centuries of dramatic brooding, probably.’

His eyes flash. ‘You think this is still amusing.’

‘No, I think you’re still unbearable. Different category.’

Draven finally moves. One step. Then another. The wards stir under the floor, responding to him in a way I do not like. The air thickens, and suddenly the cell seems smaller, the cold more intimate.

‘You can speak willingly, human,’ Draven seethes. His voice is quiet, smooth and wrong. ‘Or you can let me help.’

I laugh because the alternative is letting fear show its teeth. ‘Oh, that is a top-tier villain sentence. Did you rehearse?’

He doesn’t blink. Then something brushes my mind.

I jerk back so hard my shoulder strikes stone. There’s no hand on me. No fang at my throat or blade at my ribs. But something presses behind my eyes, soft at first, then firmer, testing the shape of my resistance.

Glamour. Compulsion. But vicious in its lethality.

Of course Valentin has a specialist.

I bare my teeth. ‘Does your sire know you’re trying to pry open my skull?’