Page 59 of Kingdom of the Two Moons

“Andwhatare you?”

A smile curves his lips. “This is an interesting question we might save for later.”

I probe on nonetheless. “You’re a high lord and also a vampire. Are you an elf or a vampire now?”

He sketches a brow. “We all are and aren’tvampiresin the way humans imagine them. And every fae has pointed ears, not just the elves.”

“You don’t drink blood and sleep in a coffin?” I’m too aware of the sarcasm ringing in every word.

His eyes flash in a warning. “Bold. No, no coffin. But as you already figured out, some other clichés certainly hold true.” His smile widens into one designed to show his fangs.

I suppress a shudder.

“The Dark Lord made you a vampire,” I push, refusing to balk.

“Yes, Caryan did.” He lets out a sigh, looking suddenly exhausted. Then he sinks onto my bed and leans forward, running a hand through his ink-black hair, leaving it messy. It makes him look almost boyish.

“Caryan?” I ask carefully.

He waves a hand in a dismissive motion. “The Dark Lord, my king, or justYour Highnessto you,” he says.

I try the name in my head.Caryan.The vampire with the ever-changing eyes. The casualness with which Riven uses the name of the king surprises me, though. At Lyrian’s house, it seemed that there was a strict hierarchy between the Dark Lord and them, laden with respect and submission. But now Riven’s speaking of the king almost like a close friend.

I don’t know why it is so hard for me to believe that anyone could be close to such a frightening—man.

I ask quietly, “And hemadeyou because youdied? They say he’s a necromancer.”

I’m not sure I have any right to ask. Not sure it is clever. But Riven takes it with a shrug. An utterly human gesture, strangely at odds with his usual grace and predatory demeanor.

“You’ve already picked up a lot here. I forgot how much servants talk. Well, normally Caryan offers thecurse—” he seems to struggle with the word, as if it holds another meaning for him “—to people who have already died or are on the threshold of death. But with me, it was different. We go back a long way and—let’s just say I accepted without having lost my life before.”

His voice has turned grave, as if this burdens him. His aura shifts too; the midnight hues grow darker, gaining depth. He leans forward again, bracing his elbows on his thighs.

I slowly approach and sit a healthy distance away from him on the bed. There’s no more denying that every joint hurts from the day’s work and I need to sit.

Damn it, right now, I’m more tired than scared.

“Is that a bad thing?” I ask after a while.

He raises his head, looking at a point in the middle of the room. “Some people think it is.”

“Some people who mean a lot to you?” I ask carefully, plucking it from his aura.

A muscle ticks in the curve of his jaw. “They used to. They were my people. I was a prince of my lands, my court, once to become king. But it’s a long and complicated story. Let’s just say I would be king if it weren’t for my various… attributes.”

“But you said you still are an elf…”

“A high elf,” he corrects me, but not unkindly. “The difference between an elf and a high elf is their inherent power. We are rare, though. And to answer your other question—I still am a high elf. The fangs don’t change that.”

I stare at him, at the darkness that has gathered around him in thick waves. I’m not entirely sure I understand what he is telling me though.

“But why did you accept then? The… curse? You said the Dark Lord gave you a choice.”

He gives me a sidelong glance. “So many questions already, and you have barely arrived. I wonder why,” he muses quietly. But the darkness in his aura stays. And for some absurd reason, I don’t like it at all—to see him sad like this.

“Why not?” I ask as nonchalantly as I can. Then I stand up and walk over, stopping right in front of him. I like how he seems surprised by this, how his pupils widen ever so slightly. How he has to lean back on my bed to take me in fully.

I try to ignore how this turns his shirt semi-translucent again, enough to seeeverything. A body, honed to perfection. The light dances over every dip of his sculpted chest, the ridge of his abdominals, the sensuous curve of his strong collarbones, as if it, too, likes to touch him.

---