Page 81 of Slaying the Vampire Conqueror

“It’s fine.”

“You didn’t call for me.”

“You were busy.”

“I’m surprised that mattered to you.”

His head tilted slightly—so, so slightly, like it wasn’t even intentional—as if to resist the urge to bury it in my hair.

He didn’t answer for so long that I thought perhaps he wouldn’t. And maybe I was grateful for that, because no matter how much I told myself that I was getting close to him because it was my task, I knew whatever he would say would cut too deep.

I was right.

“It matters,” he murmured.

Two words that could mean nothing—should mean nothing.

It felt like they meant everything.

“Your brother will be safe here,” he went on, “for as long as he needs.”

My chest clenched. I was grateful for the hair curtaining my face. But then gentle fingers pulled it back, placing it carefully behind my ear, the brush of his fingernails against my cheek striking me breathless.

“Thank you,” I choked out.

I wasn’t acting.

Others would tell me that Naro would die of his addiction or its withdrawal. Others would imprison or execute him as a war criminal. I couldn’t blame anyone for either of those things—certainly not Atrius, the monster, the cursed vampire, the conqueror.

And yet. Here I was, being presented with this gift. Compassion.

“Why?” I asked. “Why are you helping him?”

An aching pulse, like the throb of an old wound. “Because we lose the past so fast. We should cling to those who made us who we are. And because, if the one I considered my brother was alive, I would want someone to do the same for him.”

Brother.

I thought of a body in the snow at the feet of a furious goddess, a wave of grief, and a hole that would never be filled again.

So many things about Atrius almost made so much sense. Almost. Like I wasmissing a critical puzzle piece.

I whispered, before I could stop myself, “Why do you want to conquer Glaea?”

A beat. Then, “Because I’m an evil, power-starved monster.”

He said it so flatly, like it was an actual answer. Not long ago, I thought that was the truth, and would have told him as much.

But now…

Atrius could be monstrous, perhaps. But he was not Tarkan. He was not Aaves. He certainly was not the Pythora King.

Now it was my turn to expose him, to force him to let me see what he would prefer to hide. I touched his chin and tilted it toward me. When his eyes flicked to me, they remained there—like he could see right through my blindfold, to the broken eyes beneath it.

I murmured, “I don’t believe you. I want the truth.”

This was what I had been sent here for. Truth.

I told myself all of this, far in the back of my mind, as if there was not a part of me that wanted his truth for more complicated reasons.

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