Page 113 of The Dark Lord's Guide to Dating

The fracture must have formed last night in the same catastrophic release that damaged the east wing. I just hadn’t noticed it yesterday when I’d initially checked the Heirloom after our... enthusiastic consummation.

Ten damned yearsspent plotting, killing, bargaining to track this artifact down… only to damage it with mind-blowing orgasms. I would have laughed at the absurdity if not for the savage fury swirling inside me.

“I’ve never encountered a magicalobjectthat required bodily intimacy to function,” Sims was saying. “Though there are precedents in blood magic rituals where continued exchange is necessary for?—”

“Lady Blackrose?” Thorne’s voice cut through. “Are you unwell?”

I glanced up, suddenly noticing Arabella’s pallor and the tight set of her jaw.

“I’m fine,” she snapped, then immediately softened her tone. “Forgive me. I’m just... it’s been a long morning.”

“Magical exhaustion,” Griffin supplied helpfully. “Quite common after intense spellcasting. Or other intense activities that involve magical resonance.”

“I can have someone bring you a tonic, if you’d like,” Vex offered.

“No,” Arabella said, stepping away. She glanced sidelong at me, her face knitting with frustration that I recognized all too well. “I need to feed Nyx before she sets the stables on fire.”

She started for the door, pausing just long enough to cast me another look before slipping into the corridor.

I should have said something, but my mind was consumed with the Heirloom’s fracture. If that crack worsened, the Heirloom might fail, or worse yet, unleash something catastrophic. I had to fix it, or discover a way to mitigate the damage. Another fear slithered beneath that: if the artifact ended up useless, would Arabella still have reason to stay? My heart hammered in my ears from the unstoppable tangle of worry and anger.Dammit.

I tried to focus on the circlet. “Keep monitoring the pulses and chart each fluctuation. I want hourly reports.”

The advisors nodded. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Vex slipping out, probably to trail after Arabella.

I let my gaze drift over Griffin’s charts, but my mind reeled with more urgent matters. If the entire circlet shattered, we’d lose the main advantage we had over Solandris. But the shameful spark of panic that stirred wasn’t just about the artifact’s power.

I felt a violent urge to demolish something—preferably Solandris itself. But such tantrums would accomplish nothing now. So I exhaled, letting the tension coil under my skin.

I’d fix the damage. Because if I lost this artifact, I might lose her too. That possibility, I was starting to realize, terrified me more than I dared admit.

47

BLOW OFF STEAM (WITHOUT DESTROYING THE CASTLE)

ARABELLA

I left the eastern tower and crossed the inner courtyard toward our chambers. My head throbbed from exhaustion. The morning’s revelations had piled atop the magical overload until I felt like a dry tinder pile just waiting for the slightest spark to ignite.

Behind me, their clinical discussion about our “daily reinforcement” was still ongoing, as though it were a mere footnote in some arcane textbook. The memory left a sour taste in my mouth. The talk had sounded so… impersonal. Like I was one part of a magic equation rather than a person barely clinging to sanity.

None of them had mentioned the suppression runes or my father’s betrayal. Apparently, Kazimir hadn’t shared what he discovered at Evenfall Estate, choosing to keep that between us. Some small piece of me felt grateful for his discretion. Another part wanted to scream at him for focusing on the artifact while my world kept crumbling.

I fought the urge to let magic crackle across my fingertips. That not-quite-anger still hummed under my skin, constantly threatening to burst out in an uncontrolled show of force.

“Lady Blackrose.”

I nearly stumbled at Vex’s voice. She appeared beside me with that unsettling grace of hers, falling into step as I stormed down the corridor.

“A word?” she asked.

She guided me to a narrow alcove behind a column. A pair of servants scurried past without looking up, no doubt aware I was the Dark Lord’s bride who occasionally released dramatic bursts of magic while in the throes of passion.

“You’re upset,” she stated, getting right to the point.

“I’m just tired,” I bluffed. I was twisting the edge of my sleeve, which probably gave me away.

“And overwhelmed,” she added, folding her arms. “And furious with him.”

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