Page 5 of Princess of Thorns and Ruin

Leta chats with Leopold with her back to me, the man’s tall frame towering next to the champagne fountain. Our gazes meet over the tall pile of assorted macaroons, but he quickly turns away, fills his glass to the brim, and gulps it down.

My non-existent appetite leaves a hollow space in my belly, and while I’ll continue to nimble on human food after tonight, I know my last brunch is behind me. Starting tomorrow, blood is going to count for most of my calories, supplied by one of these humans. One of these strangers will become my servant, and I’ll feed on him—or her—every day.

“Did you make up your mind, ma chérie?” Genevieve asks.

A knot spools in my stomach. “Leta was nice. Bubbly. Ellis seems incredibly clever. Glenn is handsome—it’s such a big decision to make in so little time.”

“Trust your instincts. Blood is all about intuition. You’re not shopping for a friend or a spouse. Your first-blood might make you laugh or offer advice, but those aren’t his or her primary functions. You’re looking for something deeper, a visceral connection that goes beyond small talk or physical attraction.”

My ears heat up. “You mean to say that Glenn is cocky and slick, and that I should trust my gut?”

“Exactly.” A strand of hair has come undone from my braid, and Genevieve tucks it behind my ear. Her colorful rings sparkle in the midday sun. “Nightfall is a sensitive time. You’ll be very weak. You need to choose someone strong. Someone who’s not afraid.”

“Why should they be afraid? I intend to treat my first-blood well.”

Genevieve pats my arm. “Very few of us die during the Nightfall, but some do, and the rare, unfortunate souls who mistakenly get turned into vampires aren’t allowed to serve their patron. They are enrolled in the army instead, and you have to admit, that’s a harsh fate. Whatever happens, they won’t have a life of their own. No career, no family. You have to appreciate their sacrifice.”

“I do.” My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth, parched and dry. Can I understand what these humans are going through? Probably not. If chosen, they’ll be respected, but set apart. They’ll lose their freedom and say my name ten times more a day than their own.

The thought soothes the ache in my belly. I don’t need anyone to compliment me or sing my praises. I need a lifeline in this lonely royal existence, someone who won’t be afraid to step on my toes and tell me the truth.

And there is only one voice in this reception hall that could make my traditional—and mostly boring name—sound interesting.

Chapter 3

Reaped

LEO

The Bringer, Jorge, smiles to the crowd and steps to the top of the staircase leading back inside the Delacroix estate. His thick gray beard reminds me of my dad as he spreads his arms in greeting. “You are to be praised for the way each of you conducted yourselves this morning. You do your families proud.”

The side of my one-size-too-small, polished shoe scrapes the stone wall. I’m standing in the very back of the interior courtyard, hoping this concludes quickly. The shadow of the building offers a respite from the harsh afternoon sun, my sleeves rolled up to my elbows. With the heat and nerves, I’m sweaty as fuck. Zara must be worried sick, and about ready to kick my ass for coming here, but I had no other choice.

Jorge wets his lips and pries a tight scroll from the interior pocket of his stuffy jacket. He treats this ceremony with the seriousness and decorum that has been expected of him since he pledged his life to the Dark fucking King. He enjoys the show, the drama, the anticipation. Dad used to say that his brother had always been fascinated by evil. “Our princess has chosen her first-blood. The honor goes to…” The brittle piece of parchment creases in his big hands as he rolls it open, and his gaze darts to the ground. “Leopold Callas.”

…

He didn’t really call my name, did he?

I roll my shoulders back, certain I misunderstood. The heads of my competitors turn to me, and dark spots dance in front of my eyes.

“Come forward, Leo,” Jorge says quietly.

In a haze, I push off the wall. The heavy sun beats my cheeks as the crowd parts for me, but I struggle to walk in a straight line, my vision eddied by a perverse kaleidoscope of colors. Blood pools in my chest, and my legs are stiff, but I walk forward until I reach the stairs and bow my head. This is a dream. A nightmare. I’m going to wake up.

I’m going to wake up.

I’m

going

to

wake

up.

Jorge hands me a sealed ceremonial scroll. “Congratulations. You have a few hours to say your goodbyes. Please report to me before six o’clock.” He leans closer and whispers, “I never thought—”

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