Page 40 of The Dark Lord's Guide to Dating

And then she slipped away, leaving me alone in my study with the sting of her words echoing off the stone walls. I tossed the dagger aside, letting it clatter across the desk. Outside, a tempest boiled on the horizon, matching the storm in my head.

I—the Dark Lord who had toppled three kingdoms by the time I was twenty-five—now had a new, far more daunting challenge than war.

I had to woo my own wife.

18

WHEN ALL ELSE FAILS, TRY RESEARCH (OR JUST BREAK THINGS)

KAZIMIR

“Useless.” I dropped the book to the floor with a thud. Dust and brittle parchment fragments swirled around me, adding to the mess I’d been creating in my study for the better part of the night. The runes under my skin pulsed with mounting impatience. Every text I consulted repeated the same lifeless tales of the First Hero, none of them offering a single clue about the garden or transformation Arabella had mentioned to Griffin.

I’d left her in our bed hours ago. Not that she cared. The pillow wall had been in place when I arrived, and was there when I left after an hour of sleep. Before I’d gone, I made a point of leaving a vase of black roses by her side. More of a taunt than an apology—after all, I’d all but told her I still needed her assistance. For power, yes, but also… other needs my traitorous mind refused to ignore. I flipped open another dusty text. The faded green leather cover squeaked, revealing gilded illustrations.

“The Triumph of Soriven,” I read out loud, voice flat. “How the First Hero vanquished the Shadow King and claimed dominion over the Western Realms…”

I slammed the cover shut when I realized it was yet another glorified tale of heroic conquest. Forty-seven worthless accounts and counting, and not one included anything about compassion, roses, or forging alliances through empathy rather than brute force.

“Damn it all,” I muttered, tossing the eight-hundred-year-old book aside with a bit more care than I’d shown the others.

Predawn light was seeping through the high windows when a knock sounded at the door. Vex stepped inside, gaze flitting over the wreckage. “Any progress?”

“None.” I gestured at the field of ripped parchment underfoot. “Every source tells the same tedious myth. Soriven arrives, destroys the Shadow King, and triumphs. Magical swords, spells, or cursed lutes—what difference does it make?” I shook my head. “Not one mentions a garden or blooming roses as anything more than poetic fluff.”

She nudged one of the fallen scrolls with her boot.

I raked my fingers through my hair. “I’ve combed through everything in my personal collection.” Unless the answer was hidden inAdvanced Pickling Techniques of the Northern Isles, which I hadn’t gotten to yet, it’d all been a waste of time. “Magister Vellum’s attempts were equally useless. Sims is in the eastern tower archives, rummaging through any half-legible scrap that might hold an alternate version of events.”

Vex picked up a random manuscript from the rubble, skimming its calligraphed title. “You’ve enlisted the Syndicate, then?”

I nodded sharply. “I want every obscure legend, no matter how ridiculous, found and delivered here before lunchtime. Maybe one of them will tell me how to properly activate that blasted Heirloom.”

“Or,” she said mildly, “maybe one of them will confirm Lady Blackrose is right about needing a different approach altogether.”

I dug my coat out from under a toppled atlas. My mood worsened every minute I didn’t have the artifact’s power under my control. “If the Heirloom demands another path like empathy or some such nonsense, then I need to know how to replicate it without giving up my entire identity. Do you see me handing out daisies and hugs?”

She tucked the manuscript under her arm. “And if you do have to… adapt?” she asked carefully. “Do you think Lady Blackrose might help, or will it still just be a seduction attempt?”

My mouth tightened. Vex always had a way of reading my intentions, sifting through my arrogance to find the embarrassing truth. “Let me worry about my wife.” Flicking an invisible speck of dust from my coat’s shoulder, I straightened. “Are the preparations for Lady Blackrose’s training in order?”

Vex nodded. “All set, my lord. Griffin added additional protective wards, just in case.”

“Excellent,” I said curtly. “Thorne’s security sweep is done?”

“He found a nest of venomous spiders in the southern passages. Nothing else.”

I grunted. Ordinarily, I’d have made a dark joke about unleashing the spiders on unwanted guests, but I couldn’t summon the humor. A faint ache throbbed at the base of my skull. “I’ll be in the Grand Archive after Lady Blackrose’s session.”

Vex raised an eyebrow. “Yes, my lord. But might I ask?—”

“Make her late,” I cut in evenly. “I want her to show up to the training room uncertain, still catching her breath.”

The exasperation on Vex’s face was priceless. “You know, dominating the schedule might not be the best way to?—”

“Thank you for the input,” I said, turning toward the door.

She exhaled with long-suffering patience. “And who’s going to deal with all these books you flung around?”

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