Page 2 of Claimed

Open the door.

What’s happening?

Are you in danger?

Sire!

The last thought is Malachi’s. It’s cold, sharp and furious enough to cut as the leader of the Black Twelve’s mind hits the door like a fist.

Valentin’s hand tightens on my jaw and I stop breathing.

His eyes shift, red flaring brighter.

For a second, I feel him above his scent, his heat and the maddening, deadly presence that’s been warping the air around me since the moment I walked back into his life.

I see the stark labyrinths of his mind. A vast, dark place opening beneath mine. A throne room made of blood and shadow. A city skyline drenched in rain and then… my childhood bedroom. His hand at my throat. My name, the wrong name, the true, dead name, all of it moving through him like flashing knives in a current.

Lyra.

Eira.

Mine.

Dying.

‘No!’ The word explodes from him without sound and the bedroom door booms as something hits it from the other side.

I jerk, and Valentin moves.

Barely.

His head turns towards the door, the motion dragging a broken sound from deep in his chest. The room pressure changes at once, dropping so fast my ears pop, and the shadows along the walls stretch towards him like obedient things.

A command surges out of him. It’s not meant for me, but I feel it pass through my body, brutal and absolute.

Do. Not. Enter.

The force of it knocks the air from my lungs.

Outside, the Twelve go silent.

The door glows once, crimson-black at the seams, then the lock, the walls, the very air around the frame answer him. Something ancient seals itself into place with a sound like a vault closing under the ocean.

Valentin’s body convulses; his vicious claws graze my jaw, sharp enough to sting. Then his hand falls in a dead weight, collapsing on top of me.

‘Shit.’ I shove at him, breathless under the mass of him. ‘Valentin. Valentin, get off. Wake up. You’re crushing me, you enormous, dramatic bastard.’

No answer.

My body knows the difference between dangerous stillness and absence. This is worse than both. This is power with nowhere to go, trapped inside flesh that has forgotten what to do with it.

I wedge one knee between us and heave with everything I have. He doesn’t budge. Because he’s built like a marble cathedral with murder privileges.

‘Fine,’ I grit out. ‘We’re doing this the hard way.’

I twist, using the slick sheets, the angle of his shoulder, the residual tremor still running through the mattress. My muscles scream and my throat burns. A warm trickle slides down my neck and immediately the mark on his chest flares.

And even on the verge of… whatever the fuck is happening, Valentin’s mouth parts, his fangs glinting in the eerie light.