CHAPTER23
The world had been tooquiet. Everything was too still. Ruvan wasn’t merely sleeping…he was in trouble.
He came to the smithy, hungry and needing, because he could feel the curse ravaging him, brought on by the Fallen’s bite. He was ailing, and I didn’t notice. I pushed him away at the end. What if the sensation I felt with the dagger was drawing strength from him? Could this be my fault?
Guilt clings to me tighter than my sweat-slicked clothing.
But should I feel guilty? Or is this just the bloodsworn oath playing tricks on me? My thoughts are losing shape, turning liquid, unable to keep form in the fires of my rising panic. I can’t discern what’s real and what’s not. What feelings are my own and what’s been forced upon me by this magic bond with a vampir?
All I know is I must get to him. Once I can see him, once he’s within reach, everything will begin to make sense again.
I think.
I hope.
We race up and through the banquet hall. We’re into Ruvan’s chambers in a breath. The rest of them are in the main room. Ventos paces before the window. Lavenzia is seated on the settee where I should have been last night, hands worrying between her knees. I hear Callos’s voice coming from Ruvan’s room.
Quinn brushes around me, heading right for the bedroom. I follow behind but Ventos steps in my way, glowering down at me.
“And just what do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m going to see Ruvan.” I glare up at the mountain of a man.
“You’re not needed.”
“I might be able to help,” I say quickly. “With my blood.”
He snorts. “As if a human would ever freely give their blood to the vampir lord.”
They don’t know, I realize. Ruvan never told them what happened—how we survived the Fallen that attacked us. Why? Did he keep it a secret as an honest mistake? It slipped his mind? Though, it’s not as if he’s had much time to casually speak with them. Perhaps the opportunity never arose.
Or perhaps he is ashamed of you; you heard how they spoke of the mere idea of their former king working with a human.
I push away the thought. It’s a silly notion because to be ashamed he would need to think that something significant happened between us. We were surviving, nothing more, nothing less. I also ignore that petty whisper in the back of my mind because…I don’t care what he—they think of me. Of us. Of this. Of whatever is or isn’t happening between us. Because nothing was—is—happening. I don’t care at all. Not in the slightest.
I shake my head and scatter the frantic thoughts. None of it matters when Ruvan is in there, just out of arm’s reach, hurting with an affliction that I might be able to help ease.
“I gave up my blood freely to become his bloodsworn. I did it again—believe me or not—” I add hastily at the sight of Ventos’s expression “—after we escaped the Fallen. And I will now if you let me pass.”
Ventos doesn’t move. He continues to scowl.
“Ventos, please.”
“Let her go, Ventos,” Lavenzia says without rising. “It’s not as if she’s going to hurt him now of all times.”
“But he’s in a weakened state,” Ventos protests. “The bloodsworn oath could falter.”
“The oath is strong,” I insist. “And, even if it weren’t, I swear to you I will not harm him.” I surprise myself with my own conviction, and given his shift in expression, Ventos as well.
Ventos relents. “Fine, go.”
Wasting no time, I enter Ruvan’s bedroom for the first time.
It’s exactly what I would expect based on the rest of the castle: old and crumbling. The back left corner has collapsed. The ceiling barely supported by a few beams that landed in a convenient way. Though, perhaps it’s sturdier than I initially assume since the rubble looks old, as though it all fell in years ago and hasn’t moved since. The window is missing two small panes of glass and wind whispers through. The temperature plummets as I cross the threshold of the door.
Luxury—if it can be called that—clings to the places it can. The marble carvings of orchids around the hearth have been polished. The candelabras placed on the perimeter of the room are oiled to a shine, glinting in the candlelight. A tray is set out on one of the nightstands, holding glistening bottles of amber-colored perfumes and empty bejeweled goblets. The curtains on his bed look almost new. His duvet is embroidered with gold and gems, either new or preserved with some kind of magic.
My assessment of his bedroom halts as Ruvan consumes my attention. His skin is gnarled once more, gone from full with a healthy flush to almost stony. I can see it now, this isn’t his natural form. When I first arrived here I only saw the monster I expected—no, the monster that I wanted to see. But the way he is meant to be is not weak and fading. It’s not drawing shallow wheezes through barely parted lips. He’s meant to be strong, and sturdy. As ever-present as the moon itself.
