Page 75 of House of Royals

“And that was the downfall of many royals throughout all history,” he says.

I take a deep breath, feeling it rattle my core. I’ve grieved. I still grieve. I’ve lost Ian. He was killed because of me. And that could destroy me. Could rip my soul to pieces. Could render me useless in my bed for months to come. But instead I choose to channel it. “I can’t just do nothing. Someone has to change this madness.”

“And that I understand.” I hear Rath’s boots cross into the room. I look back to see him place something on the desk.

It’s a crown. Golden and ornate. It holds but a single red jewel in its center, right above the relief of a crow, it’s wings widespread, stretching along the length of it.

“But I beg you to play carefully.”

I set the stick of chalk down on the tray and cross to the desk. Cautiously, hesitantly, my fingers trace over the cold metal. I pick it up and study it’s intricacies.

A vampire crown for a vampire royal. The word has always felt like an unreal thing. Something that’s said, but holds no real meaning.

But seeing this crown, touching it, feeling it’s solid weight, the meaning behind that word begins to take reality.

I am aroyal. A Born vampire princess. I am the descendent of a literal King.

“The crown has been in your family line for over eight hundred years, since the inception of the Conrath name. The House of Ravens. Honor the name well as you play this dangerous game.”

Both our eyes jump to the door when there’s a single heavy knock from the front door. It’s followed by just one more.

My mind races through all the possibilities of who it could be. Elle. Lillian. Jasmine. It’s dark outside. So really, it could be any of the House.

Rath takes a step toward the door, but I hold a hand out. “No,” I say. He looks back at me with uncertainty. “I’ll go.”

His eyes argue with me.

I shake my head as I set the crown back on the desk. “I’m done being afraid. A ruler isn’t afraid. And it’s time to rise.”

Rath takes a step back, clearing the doorway for me, and bows his head in consent.

I walk past him, but feel his presence not far behind. My bare feet pad over the cold, polished marble floor. The chandelier hangs above me, like a floating crown to mark this ancient and grand house.

Anticipation makes my palms slick. My fingers close around the knob. I take one deep breath, readying myself for whoever might be behind the door. My other hand wraps around a stake.

The door doesn’t even creak when I pull it open.

Black veins sprout from around glowing, tired, yet wild red eyes. He leans with one hand on the doorframe, the other pushing absentmindedly against the door. His mouth hangs open slightly, as if in a daze. Extended fangs gleam in the light.

“Ian.” The word escapes me in a whisper that won’t return to my chest.

“Liv,” he breathes, rough and wild. “I’m so damn thirsty.”

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