Page 97 of Claimed By Fangs and Darkness
The other vampire snickered. “I’d imagine not.”
Okay, so either the born didn’t care about telling my unsavory origin story to anyone, or these two vampires were more than mere low-level guards.
I studied their clothing. They weren’t in plain uniform like the vampires who stood watch at the gates. They were in archaic, flashy suits. On their fingers were chunky gold rings, likely imprinted with family crests.
Nausea churned in my gut. I forced myself to focus on the present.
I wasn’t a helpless child anymore. I was a powerful adult witch with people who loved and protected me.
Even in the lion’s den, I wassafe.
My body struggled to believe this completely, but I was at least able to keep walking. All the way up the grandstaircase to the heavy front doors. They opened with a dramatic boom. Beyond, war relics were displayed—uniforms, armor, and ancient weapons.
Because of course the born chose decor that signified violence rather than actual art.
The wallpaper was nauseatingly blood red. The gold detailing on every piece of furniture and molding was classless.
The vampire who had unabashedly sneered at me caught the look on my face and barked a laugh.
“Not to your taste?” he asked.
Lord Conrad appeared above us at the top of the staircase, his cold expression somehow becoming even colder.
Oops.
“Is that her?” a shrill, feminine voice squealed before bursting into a fit of maniacal laughter.
My breathing became shallow as I strained to listen for more. I allowed my witchy senses to expand, to wander around the space.
I met an overpowering, foreign power immediately.
The witch washere.
Harsh voices sounded from beyond the foyer, like the source of the unhinged laughter was being scolded and shushed.
Lord Conrad stood unmoving, staring down at me. He lifted a single dark brow. “I suppose I shall be attending this dinner, after all.” His light, ghostly eyes revealed nothing; his voice was bland with only a drop of surprise.
I knew it was coming, but still I shuddered the moment Lord Aster stepped into the space to greet me. His smile was broad and cocky, his posture relaxed.
Strangely, a faint red line trailed from his jaw down his neck, as if he’d been scratched by a cat. His cool blond hair was slightly disheveled.
“Welcome, Evelynn, I’m so pleased you accepted my invitation,” he said smoothly, his gaze flitting across my form. “Blue suits you much better than black.”
Disgust surged in my blood. He was comparing me to how I looked when I was thirteen years old.
“It’s Evie,” I said, unable to hide my instinctive scorn.
Lord Aster’s pupils dilated ever-so-slightly, but he didn’t react to my tone. I was tightly wound, a part of me regressing back to that farming commune in the hills of Isolde. It was baked into me to behave, to treat elders and the born with the utmost respect, to be pleasant and agreeable even when I was uncomfortable. To smile even when I was rotting away inside.
“Very well, Evie,” he said, homed in on my neck now.
I held my breath. Was he staring at my necklace, Kylo’s covert marker of ownership? Or at my fluttering jugular?
Either way, I was soothed by Kylo’s presence here, even if in the form of jewelry and our blood bond.
“Come. The party is getting started. Dinner will be served shortly,” he said. His grin was easy, but his eyes flashed with pleasure, and worse…
Hunger.
