Page 83 of Craving Carla

Amari raises an eyebrow and clears his throat. “Damn, that’s one fucked up way to spend an eternity.”

Amir laughs at that. “Aya’s past deeds warrant something far worse. I think she got off a little too easy.”

Amari adjusts his suit, then takes my hand in his, pulling it to his lips and gently kissing the back of it. “Let’s go.”

He bows his head to King Amir, who sighs and leans back against the sofa, looking as bored as ever. But he stays put, because he knows there’s so much more at stake than his quest to get out of the palace and into some trouble. And that’s what I admire about Amir. He’ll sacrifice his freedom to keep his family, because that’s all he ever wanted.

I look back at him as Amari pulls me out of the study, and Amir looks over to me with a wink. I’m definitely going to make more of an effort to see him. I feel bad now that I haven’t.

“What happened while I was with Anora?” I ask Amari as we walk down the corridor.

Amari keeps looking ahead, his jaw set in a determined line. “Amir opened my eyes to a few things, and now I realize that I need to make a lot of changes.”

I wonder what those changes are, but I don’t ask. Instead, I let him pull me out of Amir’s cabin toward the large castle sitting on the edge of the island. The vampire covens live in this castle, but it’s also where Damon’s massive library rests. I’ve only been there a few times. The vampires tend to stay away from Damon’s wing, and for good reason.

I look up at Amari, noting the shift in his posture, the hard glare on his face, the determined set of his shoulders.

“The way you’re acting now, it seems like Amir gave you the worst news,” I say.

Amari stops abruptly and turns to me, his eyes intense. “Why did you never say anything about nearly getting hanged for being a witch in 1692?”

I narrow my eyes, confused by the question. “I don’t know. I just met you. Do you really need a play-by-play of everything that happened over my thousand years of life?”

“YES!” Amari says loudly, his voice carrying across the path.

I shrug, uncomfortable with his intensity. “I don’t know. Humans have always hated witches. What century would that even make a difference?” I take a deep breath, trying to make him understand. “The world has always been a dangerous place for me, and I’ve always been hiding, but not anymore.”

I point ahead toward Wintermoon Island. “This is the one place where I don’t have to hide who I am, and while I may just be getting scraps from my own people, it’s far better than the life I came from. I wish you understood that.”

Amari’s face softens, and he nods, but I can tell he’s still troubled.

I pull my hand from his and place my hands on my hips. “What’s going on? Tell me.”

“I think your children are protecting you from something—much bigger than my past philandering ways,” he says, his voice serious.

I raise an eyebrow at him. “Past philandering ways? You mean as in a couple of days ago.”

Amari rolls his eyes, then grabs my wrist and pulls me toward the castle. “You’ll find out soon enough what I’m willing to give up to keep you.”

I blush at that and snap my mouth shut, letting him pull me toward the castle. Whatever he learned from Amir must have been significant to cause this change in him. Part of me is afraid to find out what it is, but another part—the part that’s starting to care for this maddening vampire more than I want to admit—is desperate to know what secrets my children have been keeping from me.

29

Amari

Ipull the door open to the castle and step inside, keeping Carla close. Even though daylight doesn’t harm us vampires, we still cling to the night hours by default. It’s instinctual, like a remnant of our human lives when darkness meant vulnerability.

“Damon’s wing is this way,” Carla says, pointing down a long corridor.

The castle interior differs greatly from the cabin-style royal palace. Here, everything embodies old-world gothic architecture—dark stone floors polished to a mirror shine, walls adorned with tapestries depicting ancient battles, and chandeliers with electric bulbs designed to mimic candlelight. The air is cold, almost lifeless, a physical manifestation of the undead who call this place home.

“Have you been here before?” I ask, noting how the place seems to drain the warmth from my newly beating heart.

“A few times,” Carla admits, walking close beside me. “But never met any vampires from the covens. I only visit during daylight hours when they’re usually sleeping.”

I follow the direction she pointed, moving through a grand foyer. We avoid the central staircase that likely leads to the residential quarters of the other vampires and instead travel down a long hallway lined with portraits of vampires throughout the centuries. Some faces I recognize—vampires who’ve made their mark on history in ways humans will never know.

“Damon’s wing is at the very end,” Carla says, her voice soft in the vast space.

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