“Another daughter,” the king murmurs deeply in thought.
He takes a single staggering step back. Quiet relief sags through the tension in my shoulders as he gives the girl more space between him and her imminent death.
“If you use the wrong girl, it will be means for war,” Christian says, his vacant tone echoing along the walls of the nearly empty throne room.
Thorn has wanted war with our kind for as long as I can remember. Fae and vampires, it’s a prickly relationship.
The king’s gaze slides back toward the delicious redhead that all of us can smell every part of. My cock twitches as her warm, alluring scent lingers deeply in the air. It’s too strong. Must be the fae in her. I can tell too much about her by her scent. She had too much vodka tonight. She cried recently. She was fucked too harshly, and the scent of the fucker who used her is still fresh on her flesh.
A pain shoots through my jaw at that thought. She’s small. And the torment she has lived is laid out before us in fading bruises and smeared mascara. I don’t even know her, and I despise the fucker who hurt her.
“It could be a trap to start just that,” King Boris agrees. He turns to his first-born son with deep pride blooming in his eyes. Christian’s gaze locks there with his father’s look of adoration. But total loathing is the only emotion in Christian’s silver eyes. Some days, I think it’s the only real emotion that exists in the Blood Prince.
“You three keep an eye on ourguestfor now.” The king steps closer once again to his buffet of eternal life, “I’ll send a sparrow to invite the Thorn King to reunite with his lovely lifeline. Perhaps a celebration hunt will be arranged in honor of our upstanding treaty.” Wide and meaty fingers stroke through shining red locks, and a shiver races down my spine as I remain silent. Unmoving. “No one shall touch her until he confirms and offers me this gift of peace.” A thick index finger glides down the soft curve of her cheek. “And then she will be my new Promise. Forever and ever. Until the end ofherdays.”
My stomach turns sickly as he takes a step closer to her lifeless body. He looms over her. Seven’s arms pull in just slightly, bringing her closer to him by a fraction of an inch. No one notices, but I do... Seven’s just like us: he can’t stand to see someone weak being used.
And this girl... she’s about to be used up entirely.
Chapter 5
Twenty-Four Hours Earlier
Crymson
The only sound is the slamming of my heart as I move on silent steps through the trailer. The hall is a narrow path shadowed with a mixture of darkness and the three-day-old stench of sweat, booze, and weed. They shut the electric off last week, and the smell of his relapse lingers in the stale, humid air.
As I turn the corner to the living room, a clattering of aluminum rattles across the old shag carpet. I freeze dead in my tracks. My white shoes fumble back from the pile of mostly empty beer cans. Sweaty palms press down the simple black dress I threw on to cover the nudity I woke in. I don’t remember last night, but the pain between my legs does.
I didn’t go out. I hid in the spare bedroom until my phone died as I waited for a Tinder match to tell me if I could stay the night at his place. I wanted the safety of that Tinder match more than anyone will ever know.
And then Van came home.
A blurring fight crashes through the pounding of my head, but the soreness between my thighs tells me he didn’t stop there after I lost consciousness.
That drumming of my heartbeat races into a hammering that threatens to break free of my chest itself.
Because the man I once thought I loved lifts up from the tattered brown couch. Bloodshot eyes meet mine. He looks right at me, and fear blazes fire all through my veins. The pain in my throat reminds me of the last time I saw him awake...
The bruises from last night are still fresh lines that leave a stinging reminder when I swallow.
And I don’t want to relive the nightmares of our breakup, my birthday last week, or the spotting blackout he left me with in the end. One day. In the span of one day, I told him I was leaving for good. I left. I drank. I partied. I fucked.
And when I came home last night... I almost died.
“Crymson,” he mumbles, his eyebrows lifting with uncertainty.
The sound of my name against his lips stabs right through my chest. Old butterflies rustle frantically within my stomach with the threat of vomit stinging up my throat.
Then he falls back with a thud of his head hitting the worn armrest.
And he sleeps once again.
Sweat beads at my temples. I exhale carefully, quietly. My lashes close with stinging warmth hidden behind my eyes. I won’t cry for him. Never again.
The sticky carpet slows my steps, but I quickly make it to the worn front door. The dented metal knob presses against my palm, and I swing open the door to freedom.
Only for a big hand to slam it back shut.