Page 29 of Princess of Thorns and Ruin

Victor lowers his voice. “We are investigating the matter. You shouldn’t worry too much about it. It’s standard for a princess to have a bodyguard. Especially now when we have so many visitors around for the coronation.”

“But Alec Beaumont?” I whisper the name as quietly as I can.

“I know the circumstances of the attack might have rattled you, but he’s the best. Truly.”

I want to argue, but the way Victor stares directly into my eyes tightens my throat.

The corners of his mouth quirk. “You look even more like Mother than you did when you were little.”

I play with my fingers, eyes cast down. “Thank you. I was hoping… I want to pay my respect to our late brother.”

“Of course. Come with me.” He stands up and offers me his arm.

I don’t really want to see where Ludovic was laid to rest, but I’m eager to escape Alec’s scrutiny and speak a little more with Victor in private.

Humidity thickens over the walls as we make our way down to the family crypt. Torches cast a warm light over the silhouettes of our fallen monarchs, Ludovic’s bronze statue standing next to Mother’s and Father’s, though my father’s corpse was lost at sea. Ludovic’s handsome face is even more beautiful in death, no spiel flowing from his mouth.

“Such a shame,” I lie.

Victor squeezes my arm. “He never should have married that she-demon.”

“He should have been kinder.” I try hard not to dwell on Mother’s face. I will come back later, alone, and cry my heart out. Victor, Genevieve… no one has to tell me how similar we look. I see it everyday in the mirror.

She shouldn’t have been buried here. Her funeral should have taken place on Hadria, like in the old days, but Ludovic was adamant, and my grievances went unheard, as always.

I turn back to Victor. “I heard Adele is expecting again.”

A genuine smile glazes his lips. “She is.”

“Congratulations.”

He tugs me back toward the stairs. “You haven’t seen your nephew in a while.”

“He must be so big now. Are you ready for the coronation?”

The conversation drifts away from death to lighter subjects. We talk about the menu for tomorrow and exchange pleasantries about my time on the island and his new responsibilities. I’ve always preferred Victor to Ludovic, but since the latter was a psychopath, he wasn’t that hard to beat.

My mind wanders off before we’re done, flying back to the investigation. I can’t shake the feeling that Victor knows more than he lets on. If my flesh and blood was attacked the day before my coronation, I’d have my best guys on it. I wouldn’t be talking about wine choices. I’d want answers.

Which means Victor already has them.

I thought my transformation meant that I’d finally be heard, that my opinions would matter, that I wouldn’t be so easily dismissed. But becoming a vampire only changed my physical abilities and my diet.

After we say goodbye, I walk back to the main hall. The midnight blue tapestries on the walls of the round stairwell shimmer on both sides, the gold accents distracting me from the path, and I almost trip over my heels. The scents of pork guts, garlic, and sage waft in from the kitchens below, dizzying me, and the distant voices and footsteps of servants and government officials blur together as though I’m underwater. Alec shadows me, silent and discreet as a ghost.

His presence behind me brings a sense of foreboding. My instincts are telling me to run from older, more powerful predators, and my blood flows faster, the feeling so different from when I was human. When a vampire’s blood races, the heart doesn’t beat faster, but it aches. I feel…trapped.

Dark spots dance in front of my eyes when we get to the corridor leading to the queen’s apartments. I would run through here as a child when I’d had a nightmare and barge through my mother’s door only to jump into the huge bed at the back of the suite.

This is where the royal guard snatched me in his arm the night she—

“Are you okay, princess?” Alec whispers softly behind me.

I pick up the pace, shaking my head forcefully to erase the memories threatening to surface. “I’m fine.”

In the main parlor, a place where the highest-ranking officers of the court can gather in peace, I spot a familiar face, and the tightness in my chest recedes.

Prime minister Peter Chastain is standing next to the fireplace, chatting with two men I don’t know, a few other government officials, and their guests exchanging quips over tea and biscuits on the big sofas.

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