Page 72 of Claimed
Her eyes remain on me. ‘Evidently.’
Nervous, angry heat rises in my face. The kind that makes my mouth want to start trouble before my brain can submit a formal objection. ‘Careful. I bite when judged before coffee.’
Rowan’s expression doesn’t change. ‘Your bite isn’t what concerns me.’
Valentin’s hand stills on his cuff as the room tightens, then he tilts his head slightly.
A knock strikes the suite door. My pulse jumps as the lock clicks open.
Six of the Twelve enter. Malachi at the front, Aaron, Luca and Gideon behind him, Iskander filling the doorway like a Viking war dragged indoors, Cassian’s sharp gaze missing absolutely nothing.
I feel their shock in fragments scraping through the opened bloodline like blades beneath a door. There’s a mixture of relief, apprehension, and, always to be counted on, Malachi’s anger burns cleanest of all. Apparently the man wakes up each evening and chooses resentment as a lifestyle.
The witch is here.
Fuck, she’s hot. No wonder the Irishman is pissed she disappeared.
Did he summon her—
No. I think she entered on her own.
Damn, our sire looks like—
Watch it. Witch in the room.
‘Quiet your fucking minds, if you please,’ Valentin snaps. ‘The childish chatter is insufferable.’
The noise snuffs off inside my head. Which is horrifying, frankly, because I now know they can do that and have chosen not to at various points, rude supernatural bastards that they are.
Rowan steps closer and holds out a hand to me. A blatant test.
I stare at it. ‘You greet strangers seconds after seeing them naked? Bold.’
Her lips twitch. ‘You survived his bed. Bolder.’
Since refusing feels childish, I take her hand. It’s cold, like stone beneath winter water. Her gaze holds mine too long, and the distinct impression of being read with senses I don’t have crawls over my skin.
Gideon speaks, voice controlled. ‘Sire. Permission to bring in someone of interest.’
My stomach drops at Malachi’s smug, chilling expression. Valentin sees the look too. His gaze narrows, but Rowan cuts in before he can speak. ‘There are more important things to address.’
I scoff. ‘You just arrived. You don’t even know what’s going on.’
Rowan glances at Valentin. ‘I know enough.’
‘Explain.’ His command is blade thin.
Her gaze drops to his chest and whatever her witchiness can see under skin and fabric and all his imperial denial. ‘You are sick.’
‘I am not—’
‘You are,’ she says, impatient and cold. ‘And it’s not the curse alone.’
Every vampire stills. My stomach flips as Rowan’s eyes stay on Valentin, and the air braces for impact.
Then Gideon shoves someone into the room.
He’s young, frightened and shit shit shit, alarmingly familiar.
