Page 77 of Blinding Light

“Will you tell me?”

“What is it you’d like to know?”

“I don’t know,” Cyprian admitted. “I don’t know anymore. He didn’t want me, you know. Never did.” A fresh wave of rejection rolled through the pit of his stomach.

“As much as I’d like to say differently, I know the feeling.”

The words lingered in the air, their importance slowly landing.

“Your parents didn’t want you?” Cyprian finally asked.

“No. Like you, I was sold to the Imperial family. Like you, I felt thrown away.”

“What changed?”

Aviel’s lips curled up. “I embraced my Dariux and it made me invincible. I know this is still fresh, so you’re going to need some time to process this all. But don’t take too long. Other things are waiting. Far more important things.”

“How do you know?”

“You will too soon.”

“Will I?”

Aviel gave him a single nod. His eyes flashed with an intensity Cyprian had only seen once before, in that very same spot.

“Show me, Aviel,” he whispered. “Show me the Dariux in you one more time.”

20

At night, the desolate apartment looked worse.

Moargan counted two filthy bedrooms—empty—aside from the run-down lounge and bathroom. Black moist spots were engraved in the otherwise light walls and discarded towels were scattered on the floor. The kitchen was a mere grimy corner in the living area, right next to the front door, through which Moargan had invited himself.

For the second time today.

A Luminary guard came back from one of the bedrooms. “The apartment’s empty, sir.”

“Yes.” Moargan let his amethyst glare sweep over the grungy place. “So it appears. Dare I say I’m a little disappointed?” He licked his gems, noticing how the guard gave him a nervous chuckle.

He’d come back here, to Ludo Fandi’s ratty home, after today’s charade. The man had given him an appetite. Him and his glassy, intoxicated scowl and his fucked-up words.

An appetite for violence.

With the way he had visibly hurt Cyprian, his creative, beautiful lover. After they’d gone home, hisaeonhad wanted to beleft alone in one of the guestrooms, where he’d created a museum of the scarce things he owned.

Moargan had let him. The fact that Cyprian hadn’t tried to run off into the shadows, but had chosen one of his rooms to find emotional cover, had left a pleasant buzz in Moargan’s chest. And when their palms had touched at that moment—a soothing, fleeting moment—the house had lost its electricity. Moargan had felt it. That searing wave that chased through his veins and ended up in his chest with a pang. Cyprian’s eyes had widened. Yes, he had felt it too.

And now Moargan was back here. To deal with some unfinished business.

“...Sir?” The Luminary asked, and judging from the way he sounded, he’d asked before.

Moargan looked his way. “What?”

The man looked uncomfortable. “The apartment is empty. Do you want us to do a local search?”

Moargan growled, baring the guard his teeth.

“Moargan,” Vandor clipped. The junior general stood by the door, Yure on the other side. He held up a warning finger. Barely a few seconds later, there were scraping sounds at the door. Someone swore before the key finally found the keyhole. The door swung open and in staggered Ludo Fandi.

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