Page 18 of The Prince's Curse

He hesitated, then laid the gun on the counter, still holding her wrist with his other hand. Her head tilted toward the kitchen island. “My phone is in the drawer. Can I get it, please?”

He released her wrist, watching as she rifled through the drawer, her small form bent over it. Just at suspicion tickled at his mind, flame exploded in his face. As he grabbed blindly for her, something slapped against his belly, and his legs went heavy. She backed away with a needle glinting in her hand. That awful chiming she’d set off in his head earlier clanged now with a vengeance, disorienting him, freezing him in place.

Clever little witch.

His eyes crossed, and he fell back into blackness.

When he woke, his mouth was dry. He was hungry, and he imagined any vampire not cursed by a damned Night Weaver might have been in quite a bit of pain. His left hand didn’t respond, and he felt the dull sensation of something pinning his wrists. Both arms were wrenched behind him and secured. His ankles were tied, too, and when he shifted his hips, he couldn’t get away from the hard-backed chair.

Not for the first time, he said a silent, bitter prayer of thanks for the magic that had taken all his sensation from him.Blackness surrounded him, but he stuck out his tongue and found, as he suspected, his face was covered with fabric.

The air was cold and dry, smelling of old blood. Tilting his head, he listened closely. No heartbeats, but there was a tiny whisper of fabric as if someone was shifting nervously. He smelled Sasha and Paris, mixed with someone he didn’t recognize.

“Come on, boys, you know pain isn’t going to work on me,” he said mildly. The witch had seen to that.

Ever since being cursed, he hadn’t felt pain or pleasure in nearly two centuries. Imagine his surprise when Armina bound him and sent that first heatwave of agony up his spine. After being cold and numb for years, the sensation was almost a relief, though even a tiny pain was agonizing after growing unaccustomed to it. The witch did not stick to tiny pains for long, using those terrible bindings to drive spikes of agony right through his nerves, as if she held a direct, live wire into his brain.The only pain he felt came at her hands now, and she was nowhere in sight.

It was quiet.

“Where’s Lucia?” he asked, tugging at the manacles. “That was a lie, wasn’t it?”

A familiar scent hit him right as the bag was yanked off his face. Staring up into familiar blue eyes, he breathed, “Sasha.”

His brother’s brows furrowed. “Kova.”

“You remember me now,” he said. The last time he’d seen Sasha was with the Shieldsmen, when the witch’s curse still shredded his memory. He’d tried to warn Sasha away, doing his best to skirt Armina’s orders.

“I do,” Sasha said, looking sad.

“Where is she? Where is Lucia?”

His brother looked suspicious, and he could hardly blame him. “You don’t intend to ask about Alistair, who you nearly killed?”

“I left his head attached, did I not?” Kova asked mildly. His vision darkened as a fist cracked against his cheek. White noise filled his head, and when he drifted back into consciousness, he found half a fang rolling around his tongue. Now Paris glared down at him. “Hello, Phillippe. Where’s Lucia?”

“I should?—”

“All of you have every right to hate me,” he interrupted, raising his voice over Paris’s protests. “I am doing what I must to save Lucia. Your witch told me she is alive. I want proof.”

“You are in no position to make demands,” Paris said. “You’re lucky Alistair isn’t awake yet.”

Kova shrugged and braced himself for the next jaw-cracking blow from Paris. Thanks to Armina’s curse, the blood and cracked bone he spat on the floor were the only evidence that he’d been struck. “The only purpose that’s serving is making you feel better.”

“Self-pleasure is always worth the trouble,” Paris said, but there was no warmth on his carved features, just cold fury.

“Show her to me. And if you’re telling me the truth, I’ll tell you everything I can about Armina Voss,” he said.

At that, Paris’s expression shifted. Then he took out his phone, swiped at it, and held it up to Kova’s face.

He froze as he watched her on that little screen. Dressed in black, a long filmy skirt showing the shape of those graceful dancer’s legs, Lucia practically floated across the scuffed white of a dance floor. Not on pointe, but with those delicate arches impossibly high. Her hair was down past her shoulders, big curls flowing around her like they were floating on the wind.

Watching her move made him ache as if he’d been stabbed. Every step was precise and controlled, her turns so elegant and poised. When she danced, it was as if gravity was her doting partner, releasing her now and again to marvel at her grace. And the way she smiled; she was an angel.

Anguish ripped through him and exploded in an ugly, clipped sob. “Swear it’s real,” he wept.

“I swear,” Paris said coldly.

Deep down, some part of him had been convinced she was gone forever. He knew Armina would eventually betray him again or grow tired of her games and simply kill him. Then he would never have to face Lucia and the depth of what he had done.

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