Page 3 of Claimed

I freeze. ‘Oh, no. No, you don’t.’

I clamp a hand over the bite at my throat, pressing hard enough to make pain flash white behind my eyes. His body gives one terrifying jerk, but he doesn’t wake.

The dark void in his mind yawns terrifyingly wider.

And the door takes a fresh blow.

‘Eira Cross!’ Malachi’s voice this time, audible, vicious through the sealed barrier. ‘Open this door.’

Right. Of course.

Because apparently the correct etiquette after accidentally setting off some ancient vampire catastrophe, blacking out Don Valentin Moretti’s Tower and ending up locked in his bedroom with his unconscious body is to calmly open the door to his special elite guard.

‘Give me a minute,’ I call back, which is possibly the funniest thing I’ve said since my life became a gothic disaster with fangs.

The door shudders hard enough to rattle the frame.

I press one hand to Valentin’s chest, as if my palm can hold him here by force. His skin is cool beneath mine.

I look towards The Heartshard Glass. Aka the curse-clock.

The one true mirror into the great bloody legend at the centre of Valentin Moretti’s very inconvenient existence. The only means by which Valentin can see his own reflection and track the progress of the mark that counts down to his doom.

A doom all but guaranteed unless he finds his fated mate, and completes the bond before the mark consumes him.

And that supposed fated mate?

Lyra Hannigan.

Not me.

Definitely not me.

Probably.

Gods, I hate probably.

‘What the fuck are you doing, hunter?’ Aaron’s voice comes through the door, cooler than Malachi’s, less openly murderous, which isn’t the same as friendly.

‘Multitasking,’ I snap. ‘Women can do that.’

Malachi’s answering voice is a blade dragged over stone. ‘Then multitask faster. The sire is silent through the bloodline, the Tower wards are damaged, and we heard the Heartshard Glass fracture before the blackout. Do you know what that means?’

My stomach drops. ‘Nothing good?’

Aaron says, ‘Open the door, Eira.’

I look down at Valentin’s face, at the blood at his mouth, the mark crawling higher beneath his skin, and I feel the impossible thread between us hum where it has no business existing.

Because twenty minutes ago, Valentin drank from me.

And I drank from him.

Now I can hear the Twelve through a bond I do not understand, a cursed vampire king is unconscious beneath my hand, and somewhere under my tongue, Bride’s Mercy, the potion I drank to keep my identity secret, sits silent as a witch’s secret.

Wonderful.

Spectacular.