Page 125 of The Golden Rose Of Valenul

Emillie scoffed. “Figurative language should go where it belongs—in the gutter.”

“But you are such a poet!” Ariadne teased and patted her hand. “Nevertheless, I agree with you, Camilla. I am quite content with my husband.”

Husband. Married. Wife. Such a strange list of terms now associated with her sister. And to hear her so happy—at once, it made Emillie thankful for the man who finally made Ariadne come to life again and envious of his ability to succeed where she had failed for so long.

With Ariadne’s departure to the Eastwood Province on the horizon, Emillie could not help but lament her lost opportunity to get to know her sister again.

Time amongst the Caersans of the Society didn’t make the transition into aristocracy any easier. Although Azriel’s youngest years were spent running the halls of manors with the vision of becoming one of vampires’ finest, his most formative decades took place on the outskirts looking in after the grand reveal of his sire. He spent centuries hating everything about Valenul and searching for ways to make it crumble. Dancing beside the most pretentious Caersans in the entire Keonis Valley should’ve made his skin crawl.

But Azriel felt the muscle memory for the steps return with each song and, thanks to Petre’s coaching, the speech pattern came more naturally. To his absolute horror, he was becoming the very vampire he once sought to remove from power.

All for her.

Ariadne laughed as he swept her into his arms, her feet running their own beat along the tiled dance floor. He kept her from tripping over herself with an arm loose about her waist. The light pressure on her hip provided enough support for her to remain steady and grounded, and by the way her eyes glittered when he spun her to him, he knew it to be enough.

Around the ballroom, three dozen of the Society either looked on or joined them. More lingered in the halls beyond or moved between their guest accommodations or gardens. More than fifty Caersan vampires were set to remain at the Dodd Estate, with others planning to travel between manors during the daylight hours by utilizing windowless carriages and underground driveways. Soltium brought even more of the aristocracy out of hiding than the Season or the wedding of the Golden Rose.

Like at the many balls he attended as the Harlows’ shadow, Azriel didn’t stop scanning the room. When Ariadne stepped aside with her sister or to whisper something to Camilla, he collected a glass of water and turned slowly. With dawn quickly approaching, he’d assumed Madan would have made an appearance, yet still no sign of his brother.

“You look lost.”

The sudden male voice at his side made Azriel’s muscles twitch, and his hands curl into fists. He turned to Nikolai Jenson with as neutral an expression as ever. “Says the lone pup. Where is your master tonight? Still hiding?”

Nikolai’s mouth twitched into a scowl. “His family has their own celebrations.”

“And you weren’t invited?” Azriel raised a brow, suspicion clawing through him.

“If you must know,” Nikoli said and sipped his wine, “my parents have been speaking with Miss Dodd’s. Evidently, they want me married.”

Azriel chuckled and turned to watch the dancers in their quadrille. “You’re wasting your time with that, I can assure you. You can report back to your master not to worry about Lady Caldwell. She’s quite satisfied.”

“I am not here to spy.” Nikolai glared up at him, then let a slow smile loose. “Tell me…does she taste as sweet as her lips felt on my skin?”

A sudden rage boiled in Azriel’s veins at the mention of Nikolai’s intimate moments with Ariadne as her Elit—something he continued to supply for Emillie. Did he always speak of his trusted time with them so freely? A rumble in his ears drowned out the din of the ballroom.

It took his many decades of practice not to let the anger take hold. Instead, Azriel shot back the rest of his water like liquor and stepped in front of Nikolai, forcing the Captain to tilt his head back to look at him. With a dangerously blank expression and even tone, he said, “Speak of my wife in such a manner again, and I’ll have your skin as a rug.”

“You dare to threaten me—“

“You and Loren have lost,“ Azriel cut in and lifted his lips in a snarl to bare his fangs. The roaring in his ears grew louder. “Even if, by some miracle, he returns as General, his name is forever tarnished, and your affiliation with him will haunt your every move. No Caersan woman of worth will have either of you as a husband.”

Nikolai ground his teeth. “You have overstepped.”

“No.” He lowered his voice so it crackled like thunder. The edges of his vision darkened. “I’m the Governor of Eastwood, and the moment you threatened my wife’s honor with your implications, you overstepped. Keep it up, and you’ll see what happens when I do.”

“Azriel?”

The ballroom snapped back into focus, the sound of the string quartet cutting through the growing cacophony in his mind, and he took a step back from the Captain. Ariadne laid a hand on his forearm, anchoring him back in the world. He nodded once to Nikolai in dismissal, then turned to his wife. After kissing her knuckles, he said, “Yes, my love?”

Ariadne watched Nikolai walk away with a light frown. “Is everything alright?”

“Perfectly.” He gave her a small smile.

She eyed him, clearly suspicious, but said nonetheless, “I am tired and ready to retire for the day. Shall I wait for you?”

“No need.” Azriel held out an arm. “I’m ready as well.”

After bidding good day to the hosts and the rest of the Harlow family, they started up the stairs to the second floor. The manor, almost as grand as that of the Harlow Estate, had more than enough bed chambers to room those gathered for the solstice. All along the brightly lit, blue-painted corridor were doors with dainty signs on the handles, each scrawled with a guest’s name.

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