Page 31 of The Golden Rose Of Valenul

“General Gard?”

Something flashed in his eyes, and he glanced over her head to where the general no doubt stood, overseeing the discussion. She prayed to any god who would listen that he could not hear them over the din of the room.

“Especially General Gard.”

Ariadne almost shushed him. She whipped up a hand to halt whatever he planned to say next and closed her eyes against the audacity of his words. “General Gard is the protector of all Valenul. He has looked after me personally for years—this last year in particular—and is your superior.”

“He doesn’t care for the Rusan who—”

“Enough,” Ariadne hissed, glancing at a passing group of young debutantes who eyed Azriel with interest. She bared her fangs at them, something she had not done since Darien, and felt a rush of pride at the fear which flickered in their eyes. Turning back to Azriel, she shook her head. “General Gard deserves no less than the praise of subordinates like you.”

Nostrils flaring, Azriel’s mouth turned into a thin line. “I will not argue with my charge about how to do my job. Return to the dance. I won’t bother you again.”

She opened her mouth to tell him off, her blood heating, but he turned and stalked away before she could speak. Not for the first time, his massive form in his all-black clothing reminded her of a wraith. Only, this time, it was not one she feared but one she found frustrating.

Collecting herself, Ariadne turned back to the ballroom. Loren watched from where he had stationed himself in an alcove with his fellow officers. He lifted a brow—a silent question—and she raised her hand, shaking her head. She was fine.

In fact, between the feelings Loren had reawoken within her and the surge of power from her conversation with Azriel, she almost felt like her old self. All she needed now was the boost of confidence from Camilla or Revelie, and maybe, just maybe, she could approach the remainder of the ball with the same tenacity she had during her first Season.

Ariadne slipped into the crowd to search for her sister and friends. She took a turn around the ballroom, greeting other Caersan women and thanking Lady Kolson for the lovely ball. When she finally found them, they were on their way to the dance floor. Camilla laughed at something Captain Nikolai Jensen said while Emillie gave Captain Pietro Niil a tight-lipped smile. Even Revelie, so often insistent on remaining on the sidelines, held the arm of Alek Nightingale.

“Miss Harlow,” said a voice from behind her. She jumped and turned to find Lord Bast Moone, his dark skin shimmering with a light layer of perspiration from dancing. Black hair braided back from his face in intricate designs and ended at his shoulders. His warm, black eyes searched her face. “Will you join me for a dance?”

Ariadne glanced at the others taking their places for the next song, then nodded. “It would be my honor, Lord Moone.”

Chapter 7

The ball ended just before dawn with no sign of dhemons or disorder. Ariadne returned home with her sister, father, and guard with enough time to draw the curtains before the sun rose. She had finished out the early morning hours at the Kolson Estate dancing until her feet were numb, laughing with her friends, and enjoying herself more than she could remember doing in a long time. Even Camilla noted her change of demeanor.

But it did not last. The joviality required her constant presence in the moment. If her mind wandered for even a second, the darkness crept in. And it did so every time she looked up above the throng of guests, expecting to spot those cool green eyes and finding nothing.

Azriel kept his word. She did not see him again until they departed, and even then, he kept his distance.

Guilt settled heavily in her gut that morning when she lay down to sleep. The heavy curtains of her bedroom ensured no sunlight could reach her four-poster bed. They did not, however, ward off the discomfort she felt for scolding Azriel.

He had been doing his job. Despite the General’s distrust, Azriel had been doing precisely what her father ordered: keep them safe.

When she woke the next evening, Ariadne did not feel any better about what she had said. She dressed without her handmaid, Penelope, as usual since her return, and braided her hair over one shoulder. The style, though casual, maintained the simplicity and elegance she embraced. Her makeup, light and simple, highlighted her eyes and lips while adding some color to her pale cheeks.

Ariadne relied on Penelope to help with ensuring her face was presentable since she did not like looking at herself in the mirror. Try as she might to appear as she once had, she knew it to be impossible. It was better to pretend she still looked as she had before the kidnapping than the shell she had become.

After thanking her maid, Ariadne made her way down the stairs to the second-floor breakfast den. She passed by the balcony looking down over the ballroom, and she paused to glance over the rail. The pine floor gleamed in the moonlight, no sign of the blood which poured over it a fortnight prior. All evidence of the pain had been washed away just as she was expected to ignore the torment of her past.

She touched the tip of the scar peeking out from her dress. The brand, hidden below the green fabric, haunted her. It was the one reminder of what had happened that she could see each day. The design did not belong to the dhemons but everyone who praised the god of the Underworld, Keon. Even the vampires used the symbol, making it prevalent in her night-to-night life.

And each time she saw it, Ehrun’s face, twisted with sadistic glee, looked back. She could still feel the burning, the metal digging into her wrists to hold her in place, and the salt smeared into the open wound to ensure the brand scarred over. Her screams still etched into her mind, mixed with his wicked laughter. He’s our god, not yours.

“I am due to meet with the Lord Governors tonight.” Her father’s voice, drifting from the drawing room, collided with the memory of Ehrun’s.

“A pity,” replied another voice Ariadne recognized immediately as the General’s. “I had hoped to promenade in Laeton Park with the elder Miss Harlow.”

Ariadne’s heart skipped a beat. Loren wanted to spend time with her beyond a ball. A walk in public meant his interest was not only genuine but serious. It would display to the rest of the Society, for gossip spread like wildfire, what his intentions were.

Her father hummed in thought. “I can assign a guard to chaperone in my stead.”

“What of Emillie?”

“Mister Antaire arrived home early yesterday morning. He will attend to her.”

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