Page 78 of Of Spindles and Nightfall
“They said it will take at least two weeks for them to acquire another bottle.”
He swore. Could he and the vampress survive until then? “This potion is everything. Offer to pay them more if they can get it sooner. Whatever they want, I will give it to them.”
Pithian blinked at him in confusion before inclining his head. “Yes, master.”
Maybe Zarathos should be glad that the potion wasn’t available. Perhaps the trials themselves would alleviate him of the suffering this damn bond caused him.
He was weak. That vampire princess had made him so, and he wasn’t even certain how it had gotten to that point. Whatever happened, he couldn’t let anyone know. Couldn’t let her find out. But he was sure of one thing.
If he kept down this path, the vampire princess would be the death of him.
Chapter 25
Aryana
Zarathos didn’t reappear until nightfall the next evening. Aryana was improving, and she’d unwrapped most of her burns. Her hair, luckily, had gone mostly unscathed. Vampire rejuvenation was quick when fresh human blood flowed in her veins. The sad part was that the only dress from Zarathos’s collection she’d agreed to wear was ruined.
She’d spent an hour debating between two options: the sleeveless red satin gown with a slit that reached nearly to her waist, or the backless blue one that fell to her knees. In the end, she’d chosen the red. She left her thigh wrapped, hiding the mate mark beneath.
How she wished to be rid of it, but Bloodbonds weren’t so easilybroken. Only death could sever the bond.
Zarathos entered the room, staring at her. He shifted. “How are you feeling?” he asked almost gently.
She looked out the window and shrugged. “Does it matter?”
He ran a clawed hand over his horns and sucked in a sharp breath. “Aryana, about what I said earlier about you being a means to an end—”
“Let’s not do this.” She stood up, taking in his shimmering blackish-silver scaled armor that folded over itself, stretching across his muscular chest and buttoning at the shoulder. “You are here to take me to the first trial, aren’t you?”
He nodded and opened a satchel at his side before lifting something out of it. Walking back, he set another pair of armor on the bed. “Put this on.” He walked to his wardrobe, reached inside and returned, setting some other looser clothes next to the armor—a loose-fitting man’s tunic and bulky trousers. “Put this over it.”
She stepped up to the bed. Picking it up, she examined the armor. It was lightweight, darker than Zarathos’s, with pure onyx dragon scales that ate up the light.
She cast a look over at Zarathos. “This is expensive.”
“I am a king. It is nothing.” He gestured to the clothes. “Make sure you put that on over it and keep it hidden.”
From his words, she didn’t think that the other kalators were going to receive armor before heading into danger.
“As you say,” she said, softly.
He stared at her uncertainly. Aryana bit her lip, a planforming in her mind.
Maybe there was an opportunity here. It was clear from the opening ceremony that Zarathos had some attraction to her. She wasn’t above toying with his feelings in order to make the idea of keeping her alive more palatable. She didn’t have to force him to choose between his life and hers. He’d never decide on her in such a circumstance. But if he believed he could keep her, claim the vampire crown, and win the trials, perhaps he’d do it. She’d use that and the mate bond to make him desire her. Make him question whether he really wished for her demise. He claimed love was strong. She’d see just how strong she could make it.
He nodded. “You can dress in the washroom.” He pointed to the opening in the wall. “Try not to take forever. We don’t want to be late to our first appointment with death.” Sarcasm laced his voice.
A smile pulled at her lips. “No, we wouldn’t want to be late for that.” She grabbed the fabric of her dress and slid it off her shoulder, allowing it to pool onto the floor, leaving her bare.
Zarathos froze, his gaze roving over her body, and then the shadows burst from the corners wrapping around him. “What the hell is this, Vampress?” his voice whispered, both cold and black as night.
“I'm hurrying,” she said. She took her time picking up the dragon armor and holding it up to examine it.
“I told you to change in the washroom,” he snarled. The shadows hid his scent, though the edged darkness in his tone told her all she cared to know.
“Come now, Zarathos. You were the one who refused to provide me with undergarments. Surely you aren’t afraid of a little skin.”
The shadows writhed along the floor as though in agony, slinking toward her like they longed to feel her but didn’t dare. Was that Zarathos? Could those tendrils be his touch? Her heart picked up at the thought of them brushing against her, of him reaching out to her and caressing her with the dark.
