Page 80 of The Golden Rose Of Valenul

“I did not say anything.”

“So?” Azriel searched her face, incredulous. He lifted a hand and stroked a curl back from her cheek, sending a shiver down her spine from the gentle touch. “You shouldn’t have to say anything—he knew what he was doing. I would never hurt you like that.”

His lips parted again as though to continue speaking, but whatever words he had caught in his throat. He shook his head and whispered, “You can’t marry him.”

A lump rose in her throat, and she released a shuddering breath. The weight of the Society’s standards pressed hard on her shoulders. She stared back at the man she wished could take her away from it all and said, “I have no choice.”

Azriel cupped her face with his large, warm hands, and for a long moment, the world fell away. His eyes drifted from hers to her mouth and back. “You always have a choice.”

Ariadne did not know which one of them gave in first. All she knew was his lips on hers. His hands in her hair. His body pressing against her. His touch, all-consuming and raw with passion, curled hot in her core. She moved in closer as his tongue swept across her own, and she moaned soft and low.

He pulled away to run his lips along her jaw and whispered, “Choose me.”

Ariadne’s fingers curling into his shirt were all that kept Azriel and his bond tethered to the present moment. His blood roared, torn between two warring emotions: rage and passion. The soft sound she made as he drew a fang over her throat made every muscle in his body clench. He inhaled deep her delicious scent and knew he needed to pull back, to rein in the bond demanding more, more, more before he lost himself to it all.

Easier thought than done. She released his shirt and wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing every perfect curve of her body against him. He pulled her to him and kissed her hard, moaning against her mouth.

Heat exploded through his veins. Never in his entire life had he felt so satiated—so complete. Only Ariadne could complete the final piece that had been missing. Since the moment he laid eyes on her, the hole had gaped wide in his soul, threatening to swallow him up.

“I love you,” he murmured.

She nodded, wordless, and slammed her mouth back to his. Her tongue slipped along his, each pulse of their rhythm raising his heartbeat a little more. Intoxicating.

Then somewhere beyond the endless sea of his bliss, a shout echoed. Words he couldn’t make out, nor did he care about, rang through the room. It wasn’t him, and it wasn’t Ariadne—so none of it mattered.

Until, of course, someone ripped her from his arms.

Darkness, then crimson flooded his vision. Azriel blinked hard to clear the color, a telltale sign of his slipping grip on reality. He took a deep breath and refocused on the room, fangs bared.

Loren dragged Ariadne away, his grip like a vice on the same wrist he’d already bruised. Her sharp inhale, unnoticed by the General, sent Azriel’s bond into a frenzy. In the doorway, her father watched in stunned silence as the events unfolded before him.

Azriel lurched forward as Loren released her, then threw a punch hard and fast at his face. The blow knocked him back a step, but Ariadne’s scream for the General to stop kept him focused.

“I knew it,” Loren snarled, advancing on him. “I knew I should have never trusted a filthy bastard like you.”

To the Caersan’s confusion, Azriel laughed. “Trusted me? Perhaps the Princeps should’ve never trusted you.”

Markus frowned. “Excuse me?”

“Tell me,” Azriel continued, leveling his gaze at Loren, “do you get off hurting women? Did you enjoy bringing her pain?”

The Princeps stilled and turned his attention from guard to General. “What does he speak of?”

For a long moment, Loren glared at Azriel. For once, the silver-tongued General couldn’t concoct a quick enough lie to ensnare his audience. His complexion, however, paled a shade.

“Curious that your daughter chose to change her gown at the last minute after weeks of planning,” Azriel said, crossing his arms over his chest and studying Markus over Loren’s head. “Check her arms.”

Without a word, the Princeps closed the distance between him and his elder daughter. Ariadne glanced at Azriel, brows pulled together with concern. When her father held out his hand, she placed hers on his. He held firm and tugged the sleeve up, revealing the yellowed bruise.

“I cannot believe the lies,” Loren spat, rounding on them. “I would never harm my own fiancée. This beast, on the other hand, is always lurking about and clearly attempting to disgrace your daughter.”

Azriel tempered his rising impatience and shouldered past the General. To his relief, Ariadne didn’t cower away from him. To cringe back would be telling.

“May I?” he asked of both the Princeps and his daughter. When they both nodded, he loosely laid his hand over the bruise. The entire thing disappeared beneath his touch, then he removed it slowly. “The injury doesn’t match my print.”

Ariadne watched him with wide eyes as he stepped back. Though he had nothing to do with the harm caused to her wrist, he was far from innocent. The pain she held ran deep, and being caught in such a compromising way would only add to the hurt he’d caused. If either Caersan wished it, he could be killed for such transgressions.

“General.” Markus nodded to Ariadne’s naked wrist still in his hand. “You, too, have been accused. Care to prove yourself?”

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