Page 53 of The Golden Rose Of Valenul

“General Gard,” she said and descended to accept his outstretched hand. The feeling of his fingers curling around hers—the same which had gripped the whip the night before—made her skin crawl. His lips brushing her knuckles felt like barbs. How quickly she had gone from craving his attention to recoiling from it. “I was uncertain if you were still visiting.”

His lips curled into the smile that made her melt a mere week ago. The glint in his pale eyes, which she once thought to be a look of affection, only appeared as deviousness and triumph. “I am glad I caught you, then.”

“As am I.” Her voice, quieter than she wished, squeaked.

The discomfort, however, seemed only to appeal to him more. His smile grew. “I came tonight to inquire about your health.”

Lies. Ariadne frowned. “My health, General?”

“You left so suddenly last night,” Loren explained, still holding onto her hand, his face growing serious. “I was concerned you were unwell.”

She peeled her fingers from his and clasped her hands together, swallowing hard. Vampires did not get ill. His concern was unfounded. “I found the display to be… unsettling.”

Loren’s brows knitted together with worry despite it not reaching his eyes. In fact, she did not miss the uptick of his lips. “I am very sorry to hear that. Perhaps we should caution against bringing Caersan women such as yourself in the future.”

Heat bubbled forth and flushed across her cheeks. “I do not believe that to be necessary.”

“May I ask what you would suggest?”

So now he wanted to hear her suggestions? Now he was willing to listen to her words? Or, perhaps, it was merely another dig at her incompetence as a woman. Ariadne shifted her shaking hands behind her back, praying to the gods he could not spot her unease.

“I would suggest,” she said with as much confidence as she could muster, “allowing each woman to determine her limits, just as you would a man.”

He angled his head. “Would that be fair to the Caersan women who do not yet know their own limits? I seek to understand, Miss Harlow, how one will know whether or not they are capable of handling such displays.”

Ariadne gave him a tight smile. “Allowing Caersan women, as you do men, to determine when it is best to bow out without criticism would be an excellent first step.”

“Ah.” Loren held up a hand and smiled. “I apologize if I offended you. That was not my intention at all.”

“Thank you, General.” Ariande bobbed a quick curtsy. “If you will excuse me, I was just—”

“I had hoped,” he cut in, grabbing her wrist as she turned to take hold of the banister, “you would accompany me into town—chaperoned, of course—where I could purchase you a gown for the next ball.”

A scream started in Ariadne’s head at his firm grasp on her. She swallowed the growing lump in her throat and gripped the rail to hold herself steady. “I am sorry, General, but I must decline. As you know, I purchased a gown already.”

Loren held firm for another agonizingly long moment. When he released her, she whipped her hands behind her back again and smiled up at him. Blood pounded in her ears. Each breath felt like fire in her lungs.

“I must admit I am disappointed,” he said, inclining his head. “I merely hoped to spend more time with you.”

“Perhaps another night.” Ariadne curtsied again. She needed to get away from him. “I look forward to dancing with you, General. Another waltz, perhaps.”

A true smile flashed across his face. It almost worked to warm her up to him again. “I would like that very much, Miss Harlow. I hope you have a restful evening.”

Foregoing the traditional farewell by ignoring his hand, outstretched again to kiss hers, Ariande turned and picked up her skirts to ascend the stairs. Each step was a calculated motion. Too fast, and she would appear eager to get away—despite that being her intention. Too slow, and he could interpret it as an unwillingness to leave his presence.

Fortunately, she made it to the next floor and, when she looked back, found Loren still watching her with an expression she knew well: possessive and determined. Her stomach roiled, but she smiled back and raised a hand in farewell before continuing down the hall.

Once out of sight, Ariadne clutched her chest and picked up the pace until she made it safely to the library, her closest haven. She shut the door behind her and gasped for breath.

How had she never noticed how cold and empty his eyes were? How had she been so blind as to believe he looked at her with any kindness? It never had been. It had always been that same look. As though she already belonged to him.

Gods, it made her want to run from him.

She could not live out her long life with a man who found pleasure in hurting others, and there was no denying he had enjoyed every moment of what he did to Azriel. The twisted look on his face reminded her of that from her nightmares.

Ariadne crossed the room and, before plucking up a familiar title, caught sight of one sitting just out of place. She pulled the large, heavy book from the shelf and stared down at the gold-stamped lettering on the cover. Tales of the Fae and Other Short Stories.

The book Azriel had been reading.

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