Fighting the urge to dry heave, the princess dared glance down at Garin. His eyes were somber as they came to meet hers. Then, as if made of silver liquid, something in them shifted.
There it was, the expression she’d caught fragments of through his tavern candor. Something between a wanton hunger and curiosity—though this time, the look was far less subtle.
Then, his gaze lowered to rest upon her rapidly reddening cheeks.
Feelings of pity mixed with the strongest surge of loathing she’d ever felt. Everything else faded into the background, except for the deranged prisoner before her and the contrasting memory of him at the tavern-inn. His alarming behavior in her chamber, and the way he was reluctant to let her leave.
She swallowed, both fascinated and afraid. Suddenly she didn’t know what to do with her arms.
Sinclair folded his, watching the growing horror on her face with satisfaction. “He’s an old one. Not the oldest, of course, but my father says he appeared shortly after the War of Succession. My father hunted him in his youth, and so did his father before him.”
Through the blood and grime caked on his face, Garin’s expression was almost calculating. Calculating an escape? Or, how to reach her…
“Show her his cheek,” Sinclair ordered the guards.
Mathis held Garin still at the shoulders while Enzo gripped his chin and forcefully twisted his head to the left. Lilac cupped a hand to her mouth and gasped. She couldn’t help herself. There were no marks from the sword, not one.
Blood, yes. Dirt, yes. But his skin was perfectly intact.
Sinclair had held it there for an excruciating five or six seconds. Twice. She’d heard his skin sizzle against the scorch of the blade.
“He’s healed. As you’ve probably read,” Sinclair drawled, a teasing edge to his tone, “vampires bleed as we all do; granted, the blood on his shirt is his own. But within minutes, his body regenerates. The devil’s work, he is. He’s put on a show to garner your pity. He’s perfectly fine.”
The guards released him, and Garin’s head slumped over again. The fire dancing off his profile made him look alien. She had been an idiot to ever get close to him.
“I need to lay down,” she said bleakly, straining lightly against Sinclair’s arm toward the blankets and pillow. The shadows cast against the trees were starting to dance. “I don’t feel very well.”
“Certainly. Enzo, Mathis.” Sinclair cocked his head in a vague direction toward the trees.
The two exchanged a look, let go of Garin, and mounted their horses. They disappeared into the woods as Garin toppled to his side with a cough and groan.
“Where are they going?” She spoke around an enormous yawn, settling onto the thin blanket. She forced her attention onto the scratchy wool between her fingers and the rugged forest floor beneath the soft moss; on the hunger scraping her insides. Anything to stop the thoughts of the bound Darkling—or man, she still wasn’t sure—from impeding the last shards of sanity she clung to for dear life. The roaring fire between the makeshift bed and Garin wasn’t nearly enough space from him as she would’ve liked, but it would have to do for the night.
“For a walk,” Sinclair answered finally.
She felt Sinclair’s eyes on her back as she stretched her arms high above her head before resting onto the pillow. Grimacing, she squared her shoulders and shoved her back to him in an attempt to make it obvious she was too tired. Too tired to discuss matters further, and much too tired do anything else that required energy.
The blanket moved when Sinclair laid down behind her, and for a second, Lilac thought he might actually let her sleep. Then, he nestled against her, pressing the length of his body against hers.
Lilac let out another purposefully loud yawn, no longer caring about tact. There were more pressing, distracting matters tugging at her attention, which she adamantly refused to relinquish.
“Oh goodness, I am spent. All that walking, and then encountering those terrible korrigans. Then, that vampire brute that you so bravely trapped…” She shifted, tucking her abdomen so her arse wasn’t so near to his groin.
But Sinclair was still the same self-righteous, arrogant boy she knew as a child. Even in the years she’d spent skirting him, she knew exactly what kind of man he’d probably grown to be. The kind who never took no as the first or second answer; a monster disguised in a second skin. Sinclair pressed his lips against the nape of her neck, chuckling against it.
She quickly shrugged him off.
“You don’t seem all that tired, my beloved,” he murmured, his breath against her skin.
“I’m knackered,” Lilac said, working hard not to flinch and to keep her tone sweet.
His nose traced her ear. “That’s funny. I thought I heard you say that you wanted to show me how grateful you were? I did save you, after all. Remember?”
With disgust, she realized he was working just as hard to mask the impatient annoyance in his own voice.
“Maybe I can show you back at the castle?” Lilac lied, inching away again. She’d sooner or later run out of excuses.
“But I haven’t seen you in years. We are to be wed in a week. Wouldn’t it be fun to… you know, test things? How does a man know a mare is any good without first taking her for a ride?”
Fuming, Lilac sat up. “What bit of that is even supposed to sound enticing? I said no, Sinclair,” she snapped, looking down at him.
In an instant, all traces of kindness were gone from his face and replaced by the quick rage she witnessed earlier. She had always thought him reasonably attractive on the surface, with his light hair, lake-blue eyes, and chiseled chin. But from the moment he had appeared on his white steed, every line in his stupid face instantly repelled Lilac. She knew his behavior shouldn’t have come as such a shock. Since their childhood, she knew he was arrogant, self-righteous, and that he would not stop until he got what he wanted. And right now, none of his concern was about returning her to the castle. All he wanted was her.
Ignoring her refusal, he coiled an arm around her waist and pulled her on top of him with one jerk. She immediately protested and tried to push up, to get off of him—but he rolled, flipping her into the dirt, one of her arms stuck under her body and the other free, pushing at his chest.
“Get off—” Lilac choked under his crushing weight.
He sat up on his knees, straddling her, and used his one hand to hold down the arm scrabbling at his chest. His other hand stroked her jaw, then her collarbone, before trailing lower still. He leaned in, his rancid breath overwhelming her. “It’s time you respect your future husband,” he growled into her left ear, tongue tracing her earlobe. “You’ll give yourself to me. Even if I have to take you myself.”
A sick feeling of trepidation settled into her stomach. The weight of his body bore down onto her legs, and he had her arms pinned. She writhed the best she could but was still unable to free herself. Panting, she stopped to catch her breath as he bent over her, planting a kiss at the corner of her mouth. With a final snarl, she sucked his lip onto her mouth and bit down hard. He pulled away, cursing wildly.
Reeling, Sinclair got up on his elbows and swiped his shirt sleeve across his mouth. At the sight of his own blood staining the fabric, his face twisted with a lethal, feral rage that struck a deeper chord of fear in her. He closed his fist and raised it high above Lilac’s head. Before he could strike, the princess lurched forward as far as she could go and spat a mouthful of his blood back in his face.
Taken by surprise and partially blinded, Sinclair fell back, rubbing at his eyes with both hands. Lilac seized the opportunity and used the strength from the adrenaline pumping through her now-free limbs to buck him off of her. She scrambled back and away from him before raising to her knees. When Sinclair dropped his hands from his eyes with a growl, the princess balled her hand into a stiff fist and cracked it clean across his jaw.
An animalistic wrath had taken over her. She had to escape. Had to survive.
When Sin
clair finally cleared his eyes, Lilac loomed above him with her dagger held at the ready. It vibrated so violently that she kept her free hand on her elbow to keep it from visibly trembling.
“Stupid bitch,” yelled Sinclair, slowly rising to his knees and then his feet. “Fais chier!”
“Don’t you move.” She bared her teeth, tears trailing down her ruddy cheeks. Panting, half sobbing, Lilac found him smirking at her yet again.
Lilac jousted her blade toward his throat. “Go to hell—”
A bone-chilling, ripping sound drowned the rest of her words, followed by a guttural scream. Momentarily forgetting their places, they both turned toward the direction of the sound. Lilac peered into the dark, out past the campfire.
The dread-filled silence that followed was shattered by a second cry, this one a mangled shout for help that pierced the night. The wail turned animalistic before abruptly cutting off with a horrid crunch.
Heart pounding, Lilac inched closer to the fire with Sinclair beside her. The commotion hadn’t sounded far at all. Palms slicked with cold sweat, she wiped them frantically on her dress and readjusted her grip on her dagger.
Then, Lilac remembered something. She spun to scour the campsite.
Her throat went dry.
“Sinclair,” she choked. “Where is he?!”
The area opposite the firepit was empty.
Garin was gone.
“No,” Sinclair muttered to himself, desperation cracking his voice. “No!”
“Sinclair,” Lilac whimpered, gripping her dagger more tightly. “What’s going to happen?”
He grabbed his hair in fistfuls, his eyes bulging as they darted around. Then, he dove for his sword lying in the dirt next to the makeshift bed and scrambled back to his feet. “This is madness! Outrageous!” he roared, spit flying from his crooked teeth. “Mathis! Enzo!”
A muffled stomping of hooves came from behind them, accompanied by a frantic whinny; they’d forgotten all about Sinclair’s poor steed, who was still secured to the distanced tree. Sinclair whipped around, probably trying to calculate how quickly he’d be able to get to his horse.
Lilac searched the trees for movement when the
subtle but unmistakable sound of something wet, something dripping made her freeze.
A violent shiver quaked her shoulders. “Shut up! Do you hear—”
“Mathis!” Sinclair thundered into the dark, ignoring her.
“Sinclair!” Lilac pleaded fervently. “You’ll lead him back to us.”
“Mathis! Enzo—”
“Sinclair—"
“Garin.”
Lilac gasped and spun toward the familiar voice that floated from the trees behind them. Sinclair jumped and brandished his sword blindly at the air.
Smirking wildly, the vampire emerged from the shadows. “But you knew that.” He winked at her, his mouth stained the color of cherries.
She nearly fainted at the sight of him. He was dressed differently now: the same black undershirt and quilted armor vest that Enzo and Mathis had donned, over a pair of their uniform black pants. One of their baldric belts now laced across his chest.
In one hand, he held one of the stone goblets that had sat on the floor next to the fire, and in the other, he clutched a limp arm—a severed arm, torn from its body at the shoulder by brute strength. Humming pleasantly to himself, he tilted the appendage. Each droplet clung to the mottled flesh before dripping clean into the cup.
“I apologize for keeping the both of you waiting.” Garin spoke methodically while observing the scarlet liquid. “Just trying to get every last bit. Darklings are on the brink of starvation, you know. It would be a terrible shame for me to be wasteful.”
Lilac and Sinclair watched, frozen in place. Each hollow plink shattered the otherwise deafening silence.
“You don’t drink blood!” Sinclair finally rose his voice and his sword at the ready.
“Ah. I suppose my reputation has preceded me.” Smiling down through his thick lashes, Garin licked his fingers clean and used the tattered sleeve hanging off the arm in an attempt to wipe the blood off his face, only proceeding to smear it further before carelessly tossing the limb aside.
Nausea quickly replaced her hunger. It was true. Whatever she’d pretended to believe—that it was all some horrible misunderstanding or circumstance of misidentification on Sinclair’s part—was instantly disproven. Thinking back to the tavern, she’d marveled at the barkeep’s odd way of speaking, almost as if he were a refined noble himself. Now she knew, he was just really fucking old.
Garin frowned at Sinclair’s word choice, almost as if offended. “I’d wager your great-great grandfather would have told you something much different. Not don’t, but can’t,” he corrected Sinclair matter-of-factly. “I can’t drink from the vein. I normally settle for the bottled stuff, so could I possibly resist a rare opportunity at the next best thing?” At Sinclair’s gaping, Garin raised his hands, and added, “To be fair, they attacked me first.”
“You,” Sinclair’s voice cracked. “But how…”
The vampire shrugged, his lips snapping into a firm smile and revealing the perfect teeth behind them. “You don’t believe I’d allow you to capture me, just to be slain? No. You see, I was distracted. I was tracking something.”
For a second, his eyes flickered over to Lilac. A jolt of terror tore through her.
“In my plotting, I admit I’d become carried away—just enough for you to find me. When you did, I intended to toy with you, then rip your head off. But you left.” He cocked an elbow toward Lilac. “Evidently you had other plans.”
“And the blessed Hawthorne?” Sinclair’s voice was barely audible then.
“It burns.” Garin raised the goblet to his mouth and tipped it back. “I won’t pretend it doesn’t.” After swallowing the rest, he tossed it aside and started towards them.
Lilac and Sinclair mirrored his movement backward, so Garin raised hands as if to prove he wouldn’t try anything. Then, he yanked up his sleeve. The skin around his wrist had broken out into a reddened cuff of blisters, some of them oozing pus.
Sinclair grimaced beside her, but she only stared. Only a night ago had he rolled his sleeve in a similar fashion before mopping the tavern floor.
“A little blood will help the healing process, even if from a dead bloke. In your possession, I would’ve played along until I got bored, then finished you off. I decided to break free when you got handsy with the poor girl there.”
Lilac watched Sinclair’s expression fade from rage to an unfamiliar timorousness. Brocéliande had grown so quiet that she could hear her own heart racing. She’d been inching back during Sinclair and the Darkling’s exchange, weighing the odds of the pair getting into a skirmish long enough for her to escape unnoticed. Sinclair, however, would not stand a chance; it would be over in all of two seconds. Then, she’d be alone with Garin again—this time knowing the truth about him.
Garin suddenly turned his attention to her, and Sinclair didn’t move a muscle. Alas, she thought begrudgingly, her valiant savior was fine with delivering her straight into the hands of the beast, if it meant he was to remain unharmed.
Eyeing her almost hesitantly, the vampire approached her with caution. She trembled when he stopped less than an arm’s length from her, bowing and grasping her hand on his way up. She instinctively thought to yank it back in disgust, but the courage evaded her.
“Your Royal Highness,” he said, cradling her palm ever so lightly. Skin cool against hers, it was his glare that bore into her, mesmerizing as he pressed his red-stained lips to the back of her hand. The muscles in her knees and thighs itched madly, urging her to bolt—but her feet were stuck in place.
At that second, Sinclair made the decision for her. He broke and made a run for it while the vampire was distracted. He darted frantically for the trees as fast as his legs would carry him.
Garin sighed extravagantly and gave a quick half bow. “Pardon me.” Gracefully—but fa
ster than she’d ever seen a person move—he caught up effortlessly and snatched Sinclair by the robe before he made it past the camp outskirts.
Sinclair swept his sword at Garin aimlessly before the vampire snatched it from his grip. “No, no, no,” Garin scolded. “You’re doing it all wrong—” He paused, suddenly distracted. “Lo! This blade…”
Sinclair twisted and turned, almost choking himself in his own robes. Garin ignored this and peered at the weapon closer. He grinned through all the blows Sinclair landed on his shoulder.
“Is that a 1420 ivory hilt? Gilded at the tip as well! My…” He tsked several times with such avid admiration that Lilac couldn’t tell if he was being sincere. “If only our commissariat had been so gracious.”
Then, shifting Sinclair to his opposite arm as if he were a small child, Garin gripped the hilt in his left hand. He extended his arm and cocked his wrist with the blade pointed inward, past his own body, to rest the tip heavily onto Sinclair’s breastbone.
“This, blondie,” he hissed into his ear, pressing the blade lightly into the his chest, “is how one would do it. And, if one really wanted to make me suffer, he would do it slowly.” He pressed the blade in further still, his smile widening the more Sinclair winced.
“Please,” Sinclair begged. He looked over Garin’s shoulder at Lilac. Those flat blue eyes, once predatory, now squandered for mercy. “Please!”
Garin shook him roughly. “No! You don’t get to look at her,” he snarled into his ear. “Not after what you were about to do.”
Just an hour ago, Lilac had saved Garin’s life from Sinclair, and now the tables had turned. The vampire was impossibly standing up for her—but to what end?
She should let Garin drive it through his chest.
Her hands shook violently as she fingered her belt until they brushed the jeweled hilt. She’d come to assume her dagger magically vibrated to alert her when Darklings were near, but now it laid dormant.
With the gift from her ancestor—the dagger she never thought she’d use—she would get revenge on the monster, and save Sinclair’s life. Maybe then he would stop acting like she owed him something.
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