Page 137 of Claimed

‘Feels like… I still am,’ she whispers.

The words shove me back into motion. I tear my wrist open and press it to her mouth. ‘Drink.’

She tries to shake her head, but I bare my fangs. ‘You have defied me enough today. Let us both not completely forget what I am capable of.’

The corner of her bloody mouth twitches, terrible and beautiful. ‘There’s my fearsome vampire.’

‘Drink, Lyra.’

The name leaves me for the first time, and her whole body shakes.

The very room seems to fold around the sound. The Glass pulses, but quieter now, listening. And I feel the name move through the bond between us, striking every hidden place Selphine tried to wall away. Her eyes fill. Mine burn.

She opens her mouth over my wrist, my blood flows onto her tongue, and the instant she swallows, the bond flares wide.

Too wide.

I feel the wound in her throat, the trembling weakness in her limbs. The shock of freedom and the terror of what freedom will cost. And beneath that, buried but fierce, a love she has not yet allowed herself to name.

My hand shakes.

The great Don Moretti. Lord of New York. One of the Five Blood. Shaking because a woman drinks from his wrist.

Because she is alive.

She is Lyra.

She is Eira.

And I hurt her.

Rowan appears in the doorway with her hair wild and witchlight running down both arms.

She sees the blood. Sees Lyra. Her expression changes. And quietly, almost reverently, she says, ‘There you truly are. At last.’

My head snaps to her, unable to parry yet another blade of betrayal. ‘You knew?’

Rowan’s gaze stays on Lyra, but her answer comes without fear. ‘I suspected.’

The room darkens at the edges. ‘You suspected,’ I repeat.

‘I’m not under a blood curse, Valentin. The distortion was obvious once I saw enough of the pattern.’

My body moves before thought. I am across the room with my hand inches from Rowan’s throat when Lyra’s voice cuts through the chamber.

‘Don’t.’

It is barely sound but it stops me.

I look back. She is trying to sit up, one hand pressed to the blood at her mouth. Her face has changed again. More of the glamour has fallen. She is breathtaking in a way that has nothing to do with polish and everything to do with truth breaking through damage.

‘Don’t,’ she says again, stronger this time. ‘The only person you should be blaming is me. And you.’

Rowan’s eyes flick to mine with clinical satisfaction. I would enjoy strangling her for that.

‘You are in no condition to arbitrate blame,’ I tell Lyra.

She attempts a smile and I see her blood-stained teeth. The sight nearly unmans me. ‘I’m excellent at multitasking.’