Shadow's Claim

Chapter 17

Bettina felt raw. Trehan Daciano now knew a secret only a handful of others shared. How had he gotten under her skin like that? And why was he so adamant about avenging her? “There is no us, vampire. Again, I’m here under duress.”

“Tell me who hurt you.”

“You’ve known me for twenty-four hours. Yet you’re willing to wade into danger, risking your life to avenge me?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not a vampire. I can’t wrap my mind around this spontaneous protectiveness.”

“That part is not much different from a demon’s mate.”

Apparently, I don’t get that either.

“Twenty-two years ago, my Bride was born. For two decades she’s been without my protection. From what I can glean, that span of years has been treacherous for her. Simply put: someone hurt her—I need to make that being suffer in unspeakable ways.”

Daciano’s strength and will were nearly palpable, a heady combination. She finally understood why some women were hopelessly attracted to dangerous men. Not that she was. But she could see it.

“Can your power be returned to you?” he asked.

“Morgana has promised to do just that before I wed.”

“A condition of this tournament? But isn’t she worried about who the victor might be?”

“She doesn’t see the horrific ones as . . . horrific. I just know that this tournament is very important to her.” Bettina had begun to suspect that there was more to this entire event than she could fathom. Was this a Lore power play, a twist in the great Accession?

Were they all cogs in a wheel? And if so, who was turning the crank?

“Does your godmother possess your power now?”

I’m losing faith that she’ll find it. Bettina shrugged.

“So she doesn’t. What if I returned it to you?” he asked, his eyes flickering green to onyx once more. Apparently, he was keen on this idea. “And then I could punish those foolish enough to harm you. Give me direction, and they will die bloody.”

Die bloody. How tempting. She imagined each of those four Vrekeners squirming on the ground in his own blood, voice hoarse from screams. Would they beg for mercy as she had?

But she had no names, no direction to give Daciano. Besides, she’d never tell the vampire what had happened to her. It wasn’t his business—and it was humiliating. “I can’t talk . . . I won’t talk about it.”

“Just tell me—was it a sorcerer who struck against you?”

“I’m under Morgana’s protection; no Sorceri would dare. And if a sorcerer had stolen my power, then I’d be an Inferi, a slave.” Because of Bettina’s halfling lineage, it was possible for her to be both a demon royal—and a Sorceri slave.

“Vrekeners hunt your kind.”

“They do. Have forever . . .” she murmured, her thoughts shuttling back to that night.

Early in the attack, the leader had used that scythe of black flames to siphon away her power. She recalled thinking, At least they aren’t planning to kill me, wouldn’t go to this trouble.

Then she’d remembered: they would steal her sorcery just to prevent it from being reincarnated into a newborn Sorceri upon Bettina’s death.

Once the leader had finished stripping her of her power, he’d roared, “Your kind killed my father, crippled my brother forever!” as he’d launched his boot into her face.

She shuddered now, and Daciano noticed.

“You might as well tell me, Bettina. Eventually I will find out.”

Refusing to have more of her past laid bare, she inhaled for calm, then attempted to steer the conversation back to the tournament. “You assume you’ll be alive that long? You could meet up with Goürlav tomorrow. I heard his blood spawns monsters.”

The vampire gave her an indulgent look. “I’ll deal with Goürlav when the time comes.”

“How can you be so confident? You’re not invincible,” she said, hoping she sounded natural. If she had to tolerate Daciano’s interrogation, she might as well help Cas. “You’re not without weaknesses.”

“No, I’m not. Nor am I inclined to discuss any with you so you can relay them directly to Caspion.”

She flushed guiltily.

“Bettina, you don’t have to reveal details, just tell me where to hunt.”

A place hidden in the heavens that no demon—or vampire—has ever reached! A place protected from all sorcery! Bettina stood. Enough of this. She set her glass on his desk, then headed toward the door.

“Wait, woman.” He traced in front of her, blocking the exit.

“Already I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be with you. And you just keep digging.”

“At least tell me if you’re still in danger.”

“That’s more digging!”

He inhaled deeply. “I find myself in a position I’ve never been in before. I’m besieged by . . . instinct. And you are the focus of it.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I need to kill. For unending years, I was naught but death, with no judgment, only duty. But now . . .”

“But now we’re done talking about my past, or I’m leaving.”

He parted his lips to say something, thought better of it, then said, “Very well.” He ushered her back to the divan, handing her drink to her and reclaiming his own. “What would you like to speak of? I’ll accommodate you.”

“You know more about me than I’d supposed. I know very little about you and your kind.”

Another slight frown. “I’m not used to explaining what I am. Unless it’s to someone I’m about to kill. And what I have been for over nine hundred years has changed drastically in the last twenty-four hours.”

Cas had said that Daciano was at least eight centuries old. But to hear it from the vampire’s own lips . . . “You’re over forty times my age?”

Had a flush colored his chiseled cheekbones? “Give or take.”

“You were—give or take—eight hundred and eighty years old when I was born!”

Voice gone low, he said, “So now you know how very long I’ve waited for you to come into this world.”

Now she felt her cheeks flush. “You said you were a prince. Is your father king of the Dacians?”

“My father’s long dead. I’m one of several contenders for the throne.” He glanced down at his goblet. “Or I was.”

“You really can’t return?”

“No.”

She almost felt guilt about his loss. Then she remembered she’d never asked him to give up his realm. “But now you intend to be the king of the Abaddonae?”

“I have absolutely no aspirations toward that. Though I understand that co-ruling this plane is expected of me, if I intend to live my life with you.”

The vampire made it sound like the crown—which every suitor coveted—was a necessary evil he’d put up with to be with her. Even Cas must desire the throne, if just a little.

Flustered, she fiddled with her mask—her nervous tell. His gaze fixed on her hand. “What weapons have you tonight?” he asked, pointing to the four rings on her right hand. “There must be more to those than meets the eye.”

Was it any wonder that her jewelry designs had become so . . . dark? Sometimes she thought she might have gone mad without that creative outlet.

And for some reason, this vampire was intrigued by it.

Her guardians considered her craft demeaning. Caspion scratched his head, unable to understand her compulsion to create.

She remembered the day she’d called a meeting with Raum and Morgana to discuss her education. “I want to learn more about design. And mortals are surprisingly good at it. They use computers and tools I can only dream of here.”

“What would you do with this knowledge?” Raum had asked. “Continue with your hobby?”

“It’s no hobby. I’ve been commissioning my pieces here and there to acquaintances. But I’m thinking bigger. I want to sell them . . . I want to sell them on the open market!”

They’d looked at her as if she’d grown two heads.

“Become a tradesman?” Morgana had hissed.

Bettina had corrected her: “A tradesperson. . . .”

Now, in a coaxing tone, the vampire said, “Come, Bett, show me what weapon I’ll encounter tonight if I displease you.” Was there a hint of a smile on those grim lips of his?

“Fine.” She demonstrated how the rings interlocked to form brass knuckles.

He gently grasped her fingertips, holding her hand to examine the rings thoroughly. At the contact, some kind of electric charge passed through her, like a bolt of . . . anticipation.

He must have felt something too. His voice was huskier when he asked, “You devised this yourself?”

“Yes.” She stiffened, drawing her hand away. “All by my little self.” Why were others always so surprised by this?

“It’s clever.”

Chin raised, she said, “I can see a problem and visualize a solution.”

“What design are you working on now?”

“A commissioned piece.”

“You sell your work?”

She bristled. “What of it?”

“I have a niece who is obsessed with weapons. She would love to have something like this.”

“You want to commission a piece?”

“Absolutely. And then I’d insist on watching you work.”

Bettina blinked at him. “You really are interested?”

“I’m a weapons master. You create weapons. I think it’s fascinating.”

“You don’t have a problem with your Bride being in trade? It’s not exactly decorous. I thought an old-fashioned vampire like you would want me to quit.”

“Though I’ll be loath to let you out of our bed for any reason, I’d never try to restrict something you enjoy.”

Another fitful adjustment of her mask. Let me out of bed?

“And as for the trade stigma, I’ve lived my life obeying the rules, enforcing the rules. I cast off that rigid existence to be with you. Perhaps the beauty of being a queen is that you get to do whatever you like.”

“I’m not naïve.” I might be naïve. “I know that’s not how the world works.”

“Then change the world.”

The world? She could barely change the subject.

“For now, let’s discuss this commission,” he said.

“How would you even get the gift to your niece?”

“Not easily. She never leaves the kingdom, so I’d have to send it through another one of my family. I’m not shunned by them all. Well, not exactly. Let’s just say that I suspect I haven’t seen the last of the Dacianos.” There seemed to be a wealth of emotion in that statement, but she couldn’t decipher it. Relief? Grief? “When will you finish the piece you’re working on now?”

She mumbled, “Probably sometime after I actually start it. Which should occur after I figure out what to create.”

That hint of a grin teased his lips once more.

“My patroness is very exacting, and I’ve sent her weapon after weapon. She wants something new.”

“The piece you wear now is only a few modifications from being a bagh nakh.” Brass knuckles with claws jutting out.

Now she had to grin. Not many threw that term around. “I already made her one.”

“With the spikes curling inward along the palm or jutting out over the knuckles?”

“Out.” Then she admitted, “I’ve never seen any curling in.” That would be a great twist. A lady’s indignant slap would never be the same.

“Have you ever heard of a bichawa bagh nakh?” When she shook her head, he said, “I wish I could show you. I had a collection such as you wouldn’t believe.” His dark brows knit. These reminders of what he’d given up must be sharp.

His look bothered her, and she couldn’t understand why. You made your bed, vampire.

And still she found herself saying, “Maybe you could draw one?” She crossed to the desk, rooting through drawers until she found paper and a pen.

With a nod, he traced to the seat, collecting the paper. He began to sketch the baseplate and curved claws of the basic weapon, his outline surprisingly competent. Was there anything he couldn’t do?

Outside the storm picked up, but the lazy fire gave off just enough heat. She found herself relaxing, sipping her wine as she watched the drawing take shape.

Yet she kept getting distracted by him. Her eyes flickered over his hair. It was thick and straight, reflecting firelight. Had she run her fingers through it last night?

She noted the expanse of his shoulders beneath that tailored shirt and his great height—sitting down, he was nearly as tall as she was standing up. Then her gaze lingered on his face. His masculine features formed an expression of thoughtful concentration.

His eyes really were a mesmerizing shade of green. She’d seen that color before. In the deepest forests of Abaddon.

Perhaps Morgana had been right in her assessment.

Looking at Daciano’s lips brought to mind his heated kisses last night. Whenever she’d imagined kissing Cas, she’d envisioned accompanying sighs, handholding, and laughter.

But now, with this vampire, her thoughts weren’t quite so innocent. Surely that was because she’d actually kissed Daciano. Of course her imaginings would be different; reality was intruding!

Breaking her stare, he said, “The basic model would be fine to use against a human. But for an immortal you need more tissue disruption.”

Tissue disruption. Gods, he was talking Weapon to her.

She was actually enjoying herself. She hopped up on the desk, tilting her head down to watch him work.

He paused, his gaze sliding to the slit of her skirt. She crossed her legs; he snapped the pen.

How . . . thrilling. She’d never had such an effect on males before. She could almost feel like a sorceress again, enthralling a vampire warrior.

That didn’t mean she needed to play with fire. She handed him another pen. “The drawing, Daciano.”

His broad jaw clenched, he gave a subtle nod, then continued. His fingers were dexterous. She remembered more vividly how he’d secured her breasts in his possessive grip as he’d suckled her. She remembered how those clever fingers had trailed down her torso before petting her between her legs.

Slowly, tenderly, hotly.

He’d certainly been dexterous then, with an art all his own.

She didn’t need to be thinking about this right now! If she grew aroused, he would know, could probably hear her heart speeding up right now—

At that moment, one of his pen strokes went erratic. He paused, seeming to catch his breath before the pen moved once more.

When she glanced down next, he’d drawn a blade jutting from one end of the baseplate. “That’s a static blade?” she asked. “It’s always extended?”

In a hoarse voice, he said, “Yes, but if you can figure out how to eject spikes from an armlet, you can surely create a switchblade to eject from the baseplate.”

“So it’d look like it was shooting from the bottom of my fist?”

“Precisely.”

So that was the modification. Patroness would adore it. Maybe Bettina and Daciano did have some common ground.

Eyes anywhere but on her, the vampire slid the page over.

If Trehan’s female could guess even half of his thoughts at this moment, she’d run screaming from the tent.

With her so accessible on the desk, he could sweep her over in front of his chair and grip her knees, easing her thighs open.

He’d compared Bettina to a book before; now he dreamed of spreading her wide and devouring her, sampling her as he’d dreamed of all day. His shaft swelled painfully as the fantasy played out in his mind.

He wouldn’t let her go until she’d come half a dozen times for him. Against his tongue, her drenched sex would quiver, hungry for his shaft to fill it—

Control yourself, Trehan!

Easier said . . . When she’d hopped up on the desk, her bared thigh just inches from his hand, he’d wondered if she was a tease—or if she truly had no idea how much she affected him.

He suspected the latter. He also suspected she was catching on, and enjoying her newfound feminine wiles.

Gods help me.

Already her mannerisms had bewitched him: the way she absently licked wine from her red lips. The way she adjusted her mask when she was discomfited. The way she gazed up at him from under her thick lashes, taking his measure with those exquisite eyes.

When she’d tilted her head to analyze his drawing, her thick mane of hair had swept over her bare shoulder, sending him awash in her scent.

And, zeii, her smile. Earlier, when she’d realized she was enjoying herself, her lips had curled, the smile coming easily. Immediately, his mind had turned to ways he could coax another from her.

Everything about her made him want to either crush her in an embrace—or pin her hips as he pounded between her legs.

Worse? He was certain she was getting aroused as well.

But he’d governed his urges. He knew how important this interlude was. It was their beginning. An eternity of pleasure lay before them if his campaign with her proved successful.

He was building trust, demonstrating their commonalities. His actions followed a formula, but the method seemed to be working.

Next, he would deploy the second stage of his plan, using her desires to his advantage. He stood and moved before her, greatly looking forward to it.

She gazed up at him with those entrancing eyes. Success would find her in his arms, her moans in his ear.

Failure? Would find her with her hands all wet . . .