Page 19 of Claimed By Blood

I shake my head, mute.

“You hate your sire. You hate him so much that you’d do just about anything to be free of him. What you want, more than anything, is to be back in the arms of your pack where you feel safe.”

Everything in me shuts down and a fine tremor spreads from my spine to my limbs. God. He could get me killed.

“Like I said, you own me. Your wish is my command.”

“You work for him.Youbetrayed us at the gala.”

His head lowers, until his breath fans against the sensitive shell of my ear. “Cain has believed I am his sleeper agent for the last century. He and Callista”—he says her name like a curse—“believe they broke me and have since remade me into their puppet.”

Between us, the thrall bond cracks, the ice giving way to a searing, burning hatred that steals my breath.

“Until you stepped between your sister and me, the only thing I cared about was vengeance. Frost was the best way to get it.”

I shudder. “And now?”

His tongue traces the spot his breath has made unbearably sensitive. “Now, I want to give you yours instead.” He pauses. “On the night of the gala, Cain was counting on your betrayal. He had hundreds of his best men stationed covertly among the guests. The second you tried to leave, you would’ve been killed. My attacking Frost—and your decision to act along—is the only reason you both lived.”

The implications hit me like a tonne of bricks. “You freed Frost.”

Draven shrugs as if that kind of treason isn’t jaw-droppingly dangerous and stupid. “I drugged his guards’ coffee. He did the rest.”

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

He pulls away, taking his smoky scent with him. I suck in a lungful of air, trying to dispel whatever remains of the bubble of intimacy he just created.

“You don’t. But I don’t think you have it in you to continue living like you have been for the last month. How long do you think you can play the good little executioner for a man who can and will lock you back in that coffin the second you don’t jump fast enough at his command?”

He’s right.

I’m not living. Not like this. I might no longer be shut in a coffin, but I’m slowly killing myself anyway.

The only difference between my situation now and two months ago is that I have a chance to change it. I can’t waste that.

I could be wrong. This could be the perfect trap. There’s every reason to believe Draven is Cain’s spy, and has been all along. So, perhaps I’m stupid for wanting this.

But keeping my thralls and I divided serves Cain just as well as having a spy in our ranks. And with a completed thrall bond, I’llknowwhere Draven’s loyalties lie. There won’t be any hiding it.

Oddly enough, I believe Draven. It’s not just because his version of events makes sense—any fool with enough time can craft a decent alibi. No, it’s the rage along the thrall bond.

That kind of anger can’t be faked.

Something inside of me shifts. The thrall bond between us slams into place with a resounding finality that echoes soundlessly across the space between us. Like Finn, I can feel him perfectly. Draven’s metallic ice is the perfect counterpoint to the omega’s softness and if I dig deeper, really searching for it, that fury is still there.

Alongside a healthy dose of satisfaction.

And loyalty.

So much damn loyalty. All of it directed at me.

There’s no way this man works for Cain. Relief swamps me so fast my head actually swims a little.

Draven has no such issue. He simply nods, like the emotional connection between us is a job well done. “Good. This will make keeping an eye on you much more efficient.”

A snort of disbelief works its way free before I can stop it.

“Romantic.”

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