Page 122 of The Dark Lord's Guide to Dating

“No it doesn’t.” I held out my hand. “Let me see that book.”

With a smirk, he slid the book toward me and flipped the page. I scanned the small, cramped text, then looked up at Kazimir accusingly. “That day you gave me the citadel tour, you said virgins offer no special magical benefits.”

“Not at all. I saidif I needed blood, I wouldn’t go searching for virgins in particular.” His expression was infuriatingly unreadable as he gestured to the book. “There’s a difference.”

“Where would we even find twelve virgins inthiscourt?”

He shrugged. “We could import them.”

“No.”

“Fine.” He flipped another page with mock nonchalance. “What about spirit binding? We trap a powerful entity inside the Heirloom to reinforce its structure.”

I returned to my seat across from him, taking my tea with me. “And risk having a vengeful spirit possess us while we’re using it? No thank?—”

“Bathe it in the blood of its creator?”

“The creator’s been dead for centuries,” I pointed out.

“A minor obstacle,” Kazimir said with a dismissive wave. “There are ways around that.”

I drank my tea, but he was still watching me. “You’ve got more?”

“Naturally.” He smirked. “One method calls for bathing the relic in the blood of a murdered king.”

I blinked. “That’s… Well, kidnapping King Auremar is always an option, I suppose.”

“I’ll mark that down as ‘maybe,’” he said. “Then there’s another that involves no murder at all: immersing the Heirloom in the essence of true love for three days and three nights.”

I snorted. “Pass.”

Kaz gave me a shrewd look. “Not a believer in true love, Lady Blackrose?”

I yanked my book toward me, almost spilling my tea in the process. “Are you actually suggesting these things, or just trying to annoy me?”

“Both,” he admitted smoothly. “Your reactions are entertaining. Besides, it’s good to consider all options, even the absurd ones.”

“You’re the absurd one,” I muttered, turning back to my book.

He shot back in that languid, confident tone, “You didn’t think so last night. As I recall, your exact words?—”

“If you finish that sentence,” I warned, “I’ll set you on fire again.”

“That’s not quite what you said.” He chuckled, warm and low. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“What, vetoing your increasingly horrific suggestions?”

“No.” He motioned to the shelves. “The books. The environment. The entire library ritual. You like it.”

I hesitated. It was unnerving how sharp his insight could be sometimes. “I do,” I admitted. “When my father wasn’t watching, I read anything I could scrounge up. I prefer it to trivial skills like needlepoint.” I shuddered. “At least reading doesn’t draw blood, usually.”

For a while, neither of us spoke. The library’s hush surrounded us, broken only by the rustle of pages and the scrape of Kazimir’s quill across parchment. Eventually, everything Iread blurred together. I rose from my seat, heading for the rows of shelves.

Kazimir glanced up briefly, eyes tracking my movement before returning to his text. “Try not to set fire to anything important.”

“I haven’taccidentallyset fire to anything in ages.”

“The warning still stands.”

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