Page 31 of The Dark Lord's Guide to Dating

“Was it worth it?” she asked quietly.

A pulse of anger threatened to surge, but I forced a calm, measured tone. “Power is always worth the price.”

Arabella’s lips parted, but she didn’t press. Whatever she saw in my face, it kept her from asking more. She exhaled, lying down again, turning away as if to let the moment pass.

“You still haven’t told me why you specifically needed a bride of heroic bloodline,” she said.

I weighed my response. “I’ll show you tomorrow,” I promised, making sure my tone carried more command than warmth.

She was quiet so long I thought maybe she’d fallen asleep, but she spoke again, her voice drifting across the pillow barrier. “I still hate you.”

I managed a crooked grin, letting my eyes roam over her form under the blanket. There was more than hatred there. “I know. But here you are, sharing my bed anyway.”

She shifted, and I half expected her to lob a pillow at me. Instead, her voice unexpectedly dropped. “Why use your own bone for the rings? I recognized my hair, but… I didn’t realize...”

Her question took me off guard. I let my gaze flick to the faint glow of my wedding band. “Because it needed both of us,” I said at length. “Your hair, my bone. That’s how the Cup of Dominion ritual works.”

She let out a slow breath. “I’d ask if it hurt, but after seeing your runes, I imagine it was nothing.”

“Nothing’s ever truly nothing,” I countered, surprised at my own honesty. “But if this arrangement is worth doing, it’s worth doing properly.”

A contemplative silence stretched out, and I felt her analyzing my words, or maybe me, in the darkness. It made me vulnerable in a way I didn’t appreciate. I shifted, letting the covers drape strategically if only to ease the tension throbbing in my gut.

Finally, she scoffed softly. “I’m struggling to believe there’s any sincerity in you.”

“Then struggle,” I said, letting my mask reassert itself. “I’d advise you to rest, wife. I’ve quite a morning planned for us both. Who knows what fresh horrors you’ll discover about me tomorrow?”

She exhaled, and I heard the soft rustle of the sheets as she settled in, presumably not to sleep but to plot my demise in creative ways. Fine by me. Plot away, my little hero. I’d be waiting.

14

REVEAL YOUR TRUE PLANS (AFTER IT’S TOO LATE)

ARABELLA

The next morning, I wandered through the fortress’s library while waiting for Kazimir. The space felt exactly like stepping into a Dark Lord’s gothic imagination—equal parts majestic and unsettling. Shadows loomed high under towering arches, swallowing the shelves in the gloom overhead. The shelves themselves were carved from a wood so dark I wondered if it sprouted from cursed soil. The smell was even stranger: old parchment, spilled ink, and something smoky that reminded me of raw magic.

Entire sections were devoted to topics that would give most sane people nightmares:Proper Etiquette for Necromantic Summonings,1001 Ways to Harvest Souls: A Beginner’s Guide,and basically everything you’d never think to keep next to a cozy reading chair. Rare manuscripts and gilded scrolls lined the shelves, painting a picture of Kazimir’s wide-ranging (and occasionally horrifying) interests.

A tall, ancient-looking mage in long robes shuffled past the end of the aisle for the third time, glancing in my direction as though he expected me to start ripping pages out of his precioustomes. To be fair, thatdidsound like something I might do if I got desperate enough. But so far, I’d simply tapped a finger across the spines, reading titles and trying to get a better sense of the place.

I paused at a book calledThe Joy of Hex. It sounded considerably more pleasant than the rest... until I flipped it open and stumbled upon an illustrated guide to ritual disembowelment. With a shudder, I slammed it shut.

“Find anything interesting?” Kazimir’s voice practically vibrated against my spine, making me drop the cursed volume back into place.

I turned to see him leaning against a ladder with far too much casual arrogance. His stormy eyes sparkled with amused challenge, reminding me uncomfortably of how he’d looked stretched across silken sheets last night—smirking, unapologetically naked, and infuriatingly aware of my reaction to him.

“Just enjoying some light scandalous reading.” I gestured to the shelf, adopting my most unimpressed tone. “You have quite a collection. Where did all these come from?”

“I inherited many of them when I took over the citadel.” He continued watching me with that mesmerizing gaze. “Stole some. Found others. Had some donated.”

I swallowed a retort about the Dark Lord receiving “donations” and looked back at the spines. “101 Creative Cursescaught my eye.”

He nodded with mock gravity. “One of Griffin’s favorites. Though in fairness, the author’s brilliance was overshadowed by a teapot that gained sentience and exacted petty vengeance on him.”

I raised a brow. “And that’s why we don’t mess with kitchenware.”

“Precisely.” He moved closer, and his magic-laced scent—steel and charred wood—caught me off guard. “Did you sleep well, Lady Blackrose?”

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