Page 88 of The Golden Rose Of Valenul

“Was it the General?” His voice turned soft, lulling her into what she hoped was not false security.

Her hands shook, and she curled her fingers into her skirt to hide it. “Yes.”

Her father sat back with an exasperated sigh, the cause of which she did not know. Loren had likely continued to lie, even in front of the other Councilmen, and he had been inclined to believe the General over Azriel. No matter the source of his contemplation, he surveyed her before saying, “Young vampires of every walk—Caersan, Rusan, and those in-between—are often not in control of themselves.”

“Please, Father,” she whispered, “do not make excuses for him.”

“No excuses.” He leaned forward, elbows to knees and took her hand in his. She had half a mind of pulling away. Such an affectionate gesture was not common between them. “I know from experience.”

By the gods, what did he mean by that? Ariadne did not want to know. He had held the title of General long before Loren and for good reason. It made for an officer willing to do what was best for Valenul, though perhaps not the best for everyone else.

“The General hurt me,” she said, stronger now. She met his gaze and held it with as much force as she could muster.

“So could Lord Caldwell.”

Strange, to hear Azriel’s new name from her father. It felt foreign and as though he spoke of someone other than the black-clad guard who put the General of Valenul to sleep in front of everyone.

“I trust him,” she said and knew it to be true in her heart. He would never harm her the way Loren had.

With a sniff, her father shook his head. “And I trusted the General.”

He released her hand and sat back again. For the first time since entering the drawing room, he looked away. The fire reflected in his eyes, making the golden hue dance like the flames.

“For what it is worth,” she said, “I am sorry. None of this was intended.”

“I have spoken with Caldwell.” Still, he did not look back at her. He spoke to the hearth. “He is ready to take his place on the Council, gods help him.”

Ariadne’s heart stumbled. She had guessed, of course, that he would do so to avoid certain death. Between their kiss and his victory over Loren, the safest place for him was amongst the other Lord Governors.

“Happy news,” she said breathlessly.

His gaze finally flickered back to her. “And he will set this right by taking you as his wife.”

She gaped at him for a long moment, stomach alighting with butterflies. Her breathing hitched. This had to be a dream. “You will allow it?”

Ice flooded her veins as his eyes narrowed. She knew that look. Sitting back a bit, she took in his minute movements. The flutter of the muscle in his jaw. A clench of his fist. This was the temper he had spoken of—the one he claimed only plagued the youth.

“Neither you nor I have much of a choice at this point, Ariadne.”

He stood and swept past her. She held her breath as he moved, waiting for the hammer to fall. He had worked hard for the match between her and Loren. All for her to burn it to the ground by kissing Azriel.

She turned to see him open the door, letting in the sounds of joviality from below. He did not look back as he said, “For your sake—and your sister’s… do not mess this one up.”

Every plan Loren constructed for his life crashed around him the moment he had found his future wife in the arms of another man. Had that man been a Caersan of worth, he may not have cared, considering he would have won the duel against most men. Even if it had been Nikolai Jensen, who swore a blood oath to keep his distance from her, Loren would not have been angry.

But Azriel fucking Tenebra? That pitiful excuse of a guard who spent his nights leering at her did not deserve to live after what he had done. If it were not for the Will of a deceased Lord who had been cognitively declining for decades, Loren would have seen the filthy bastard strung up by his testicles.

As it were, the Princeps accepted the dirty fae’s ill-earned victory and the words of a dead man.

Perhaps Markus Harlow was not one to be trusted.

Loren exited the Harlow Manor the moment the Council convened in the study. He pushed past the dumbfounded lords and motioned for Nikolai to join him. The Captain, loyal as always, loitered in the foyer, awaiting the next command.

“What happened?” Nikolai followed him out the front doors as Loren called for their horses to be brought forth.

“My wedding is canceled.” Loren tugged on his leather riding gloves and adjusted his cloak. “Ariadne’s is not.”

Nikolai frowned, blanching at the informal use of her first name. “How is that possible?”

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