Page 66 of Claimed

My gaze drops to his chest, the faint tattoos half-hidden by scars and curse. One near his collarbone has caught my attention more than once: subtle, old, less decoration than vow.

‘What’s that one?’

His eyes flick down. ‘A ledger mark.’

‘You tattooed accounting onto your body?’

His mouth curves faintly. ‘You say that as if numbers are harmless.’

‘They are, unless you’re using them to commit fraud.’

‘I used them to survive. And to end men who believed they were untouchable.’

My curiosity sharpens despite everything. ‘That doesn’t sound like something a vampire does for fun.’

‘It is older than the vampire.’

‘Older than the Tower? Than New York?’

He nods once. A beat of silence stretches.

I can’t help it. ‘Who were you before?’

His eyes go distant. Hard. He’s stepping into a place he doesn’t visit often. ‘A man,’ he says.

I scoff. ‘That’s not an answer.’

‘It is the only one you deserve.’ Then, when I open my mouth, he adds, ‘A man in Florence.’

‘You were Italian-Italian.’

His mouth twitches. ‘Am I not now?’

‘You’re the Vampire King of New York now. Different paperwork.’

‘Same appetite to survive.’

My pulse jumps at the way he says it, because I know what that survival may be hinged on. Me. My blood. My hidden name.

‘Florence,’ I press. ‘When?’

‘A long time ago.’

‘Define long. And do not segue into whether I find you sexy.’

His gaze flickers with irritation at being caught. ‘A little over half a millennium.’

My breath catches. ‘You were born in the 1500s?’

For a second, I see him differently: not the polished ruler of the Tower or the dangerous lover in whose bed I keep making unforgivably stupid choices, but a young man in candlelight with ink on his fingers and blood already gathering at the edges of his world.

‘What were you?’ I ask, softer despite myself.

‘A banker’s son.’

‘Oh. A rich boy.’

His eyes narrow until only the thinnest silver remains. ‘A boy in a noble house in decline. There is a difference.’