Page 67 of The Golden Rose Of Valenul

The way she sounded when she begged sent a warm flush through his veins. The things he would like to do to demonstrate how much he enjoyed it. He would need to find reasons, once they were married, to get her to do it more often. A small smile curled the corners of his lips at the possibilities.

Before he could speak, Markus barked from the door, “What is it, Daughter?”

Her eyes flickered to her father, then back up at Loren. When next she spoke, it was so quiet, he was certain the Princeps could not hear her words. “Please, General. Let them be. I will not go back again.”

“Speak up!” Markus turned now, frowning.

“Do it for me,” Ariadne simpered, gripping his wrist a little tighter.

Fuck, he was going to lose his mind if she kept that up. He kept his voice even and loud enough for Markus to hear, “As you wish, Miss Harlow. I will not shut down the bistro so long as you do not return.”

“I promise,” she said a little too quickly and, releasing her hold on him, took a step back. Her face paled, and she swallowed hard.

“Ariadne, are you alright?” Markus took a step closer.

She shook her head. Loren moved forward, confused by her sudden withdrawal. He had thought, for a moment, she had been feeling the same tension he had.

Then she puked on the floor.

After vomiting onto Loren’s boots, Ariadne could not bring herself to look him in the eye. She apologized repeatedly, mortified and stunned at the lack of self-control. First, she told Azriel how handsome she thought he was, then her loose lips betrayed her again by allowing the sick to escape. She had held it back from the moment they pushed through the doorway and had hoped they would leave long before she succumbed to the vile sensation.

Dinner, however, became an entirely new villain to overcome. Though emptying her stomach of its contents and drinking ginger tea alleviated the nausea, she had not been prepared for the very sudden mental clarity.

What the fuck had she done to keep Loren from ruining the Drifter’s Inn and Bistro? She did not speak like that to anyone. Not even when Darien would taunt her and all she wanted was to feel his lips on hers.

She certainly did not wish for Loren to do so, though it was inevitable with their engagement ball and wedding on the horizon. Once they were officially announced, small displays of affection would be allowed and expected. If she refused to accept his advances, particularly in public, it would cause an uproar of gossip.

That was a problem for another time.

Making it through dinner with Loren and a handful of his officers, including Nikolai Jensen, was the problem of the evening. The Captain had been called on immediately after her gruesome display in her suite sitting room to provide her and Emillie with fresh, untainted blood. Alongside Markus, Loren had remained to oversee her feeding.

When Ariadne sank her teeth into Nikolai’s wrist, something primal had sparked in the General’s eyes. Her father chatted casually with Nikolai, as he always did, and prodded her fiancé with questions, which he answered without removing his gaze from her. His nostrils flared, and he shifted in his seat on the couch across from where she drank.

She knew what he was thinking. She knew he imagined his own wrist in place of Nikolai’s. She knew he struggled to contain the lust in front of the other Caersan men.

Feeding, after all, could be an erotic connection between married vampires.

Ariadne also knew she should have those same feelings for Loren. One night, she would be drinking his blood for survival, and he would partake in hers. It was said to connect Caersan partners much in the same way as fae bonded. She should, then, look forward to sharing those moments with her future husband.

But she did not. It was not Loren she thought of as the Captain’s blood gushed across her tongue before being diverted up her hollow fangs to mingle in her veins. It was not Darien, either, though once it had been.

It was Azriel.

The dream that somehow, someway, he would save her from the looming nuptials eclipsed the shame of the very thought.

Impossible, of course. A bastard-bred, half-fae guard had no place in the Caersan Society. The only other option would be to run away with him, and that was as fantastical as getting out of marriage with the General.

So as she pushed the food around on her plate, ignored as usual by the Caersan men who sat around her, Ariadne felt more distant and alone than ever before. She stared out the bay of windows beyond Loren, unable to muster a smile anytime he looked her way.

“It was very kind of the Captain to come tonight,” Emillie whispered to her as the men laughed boisterously around them. “I am feeling much better. Are you?”

Ariadne did not respond. Her very soul ached, and absolutely nothing she did made it end. Every time she looked across the table, she remembered precisely what her life thus far had amounted to: becoming the prized broodmare won by the highest bidder.

“Ari?” Emillie took her hand and squeezed once.

A single, silent squeeze was all she could muster in response. What could she say? She was not thankful for Nikolai nor for the engagement forced upon her by a father who did not care for her happiness. Her safety was only his priority, so she could one day become the wife he had trained her to be. Quiet. Subordinate. Accepting.

That Ariadne had not adhered to those virtues her first Season was his ultimate shame. He allowed her to accept Darien’s proposal to save his own reputation. Nothing more, nothing less.

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