Page 3 of The Golden Rose Of Valenul

The general pulled a pen from a pocket lining the inside of his jacket. “A pity, but I am a patient man for that which is worth the wait.”

If she could have melted into the floor at that moment, she would have. A spinster life be damned. With the nerves of the Reveal behind her, she could focus on her quarry for the Season.

And his name was General Loren Gard.

Ariadne extended her hand and the dance card dangling from her wrist. Loren brushed his fingertips along the inside of her arm as he opened the card and jotted down not his name, but his title. A single word—General—scrawled across the line in elegant script. Anyone else who signed up to dance with her would now know who the competition was.

As if it were a competition at all.

Loren excused himself with another bow and kiss of her hand, his brilliant eyes never leaving hers. Then he turned and disappeared into the crowd, leaving Ariadne’s heart racing. It was a blessing to have someone like him around, particularly in the early days of her return. He had mourned Darien as she had, and together, under the careful supervision of her father, they healed.

“My Lord,” a light, familiar voice spoke urgently behind her. Ariadne whipped around, her smile brimming at the sight of her family’s personal guard, Madan Antaire. Since he rescued her from the mountain keep, he had become nothing short of the brother she had never had. He flicked a smile and bow in her direction, then turned back to her father. “I increased patrols near the manor as requested.”

His shoulder-length dark brown hair framed his Caersan face. Though he worked as a guard, his strong line of pure-blood vampires stood out. His finely crafted features, stunning with his green and gold marbled eyes, spoke almost as loudly as the web of veins on his face.

Although Ariadne considered him beautiful, his professionalism and position outside Society slid him firmly into the never going to happen category.

“Very good,” her father replied, clasping his forearm. “Your cousin joins us tonight to begin his duties as personal guard, yes? My daughters will each need chaperones.”

Chaperones. Chaperones meant visits from suitors, and visits meant entertaining men she did not care for. Between herself and Emillie, who had debuted several years early to deflect attention from Ariadne’s absence, her father would be unable to chaperone them both.

Nonetheless, Ariadne resented not knowing of her father’s plan for a second guard as she would have cautioned him against it. The very idea of a new guard looking after her made her stomach churn.

“Yes, my Lord,” Madan said and turned, gesturing to the far side of the room. “Azriel Tenebra, who overlooked the Caldwell Estate with me.”

Through the crowd moved an imposing figure at least a head taller than most men in the room. His long black hair, pulled into a thick knot at the top of his head, put ears with rounded points on display. The thin lines of a Caersan, though faint, ran up his muscular neck. His expressionless face bore the same fine bone structure as his cousin’s, and his sharp, mossy green eyes tore through her like razors.

Ariadne shrank back and swallowed hard. Though he was not unattractive, his stony countenance made her uneasy. Any greeting she may have given died on her tongue.

Unlike the guard she’d come to know and love, Azriel did not blend into the ballroom. Instead of trousers and a finely-tailored shirt, he wore thick leather pants and boots, a dark tunic tucked into his waistband, and a massive sword strapped across his back. Most Caersan soldiers and guards, like Loren and Madan, kept their blades at their hip.

“My Lord,” Azriel said, voice deep and gravelly. He put a fist above his heart and bent at the waist, the traditional salute of a soldier. “I’m honored to be here.”

Even his voice felt wrong. It raked on her ears, and something about it put her on high alert. Compared to Madan’s dulcet tones, she could not find something positive about it.

Her mind made up, Ariadne looked for her father’s opinion. Perhaps he would deem Madan’s cousin too unrefined for the position. She could only hope, for speaking against him would be considered impudent.

“Welcome,” her father said without hesitation. He lifted his chin a bit as though to make himself more imperious beside the towering guard. “Mister Antaire has regaled me with tales of the aid you provided him in the past. I assume that means you have been given your assignment.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very good.” Her father laid a hand on her upper back, and she stiffened, shifting out from under his touch. “This is my elder daughter, Miss Ariadne Harlow.”

Azriel swung his pale gaze to her. For a long moment, it tugged at her in the most disconcerting fashion. It took all her self control not to squirm away. After a beat, he bowed to her and said, “Miss Harlow.”

“Father!” A bell-like voice shot through the crowd behind them just before Emillie wove through, her brunette hair piled high on her head. The pale blue dress she wore swept out behind her as she reeled to a halt. Flushed freckled cheeks grew more rosy at the sight of them all, her aqua eyes widening as they swung from Madan to Azriel. “Pardon my tardiness.”

Relief tangled with discomfort as Ariadne shifted aside to let her sister through.

“Daughter,” their father said and turned to urge her forward. “May I introduce the newest addition to your guard, Azriel Tenebra. Mister Tenebra, this is my younger daughter, Miss Emillie Harlow.”

Emillie curtsied as Azriel repeated his bow and greeting to her. The tension only thickened when Madan laid a hand on his cousin’s shoulder and gave him a stiff nod. A silent command. Azriel inclined his head to the Princeps, then again to the sisters, his gaze tripping over Ariadne’s face. Cold dripped down her spine. His mouth twitched, and then he was gone, weaving through the ballroom to the far corner.

“You will ensure he upholds my expectations at all times,” her father said to Madan.

The guard nodded. “He’s a bit rough around the edges, but I assure you, a finer swordsman you won’t find.”

“Very good.” His most well-liked phrase of the evening. “I trust you, Mister Antaire.”

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