It would be safer to wear the mantle.

Cover my throat. Cover my Mark. Make myself small and unnoticeable. The cynical part of me could say that Raihn’s circle wanted me to cover it because it made him seem more powerful, but I knew the truth was more complicated than that—knew that the Mark also posed a significant risk to me, a target painted right over my heart in a room full of stakes.

And maybe a part of myself was happy to hide it, ashamed of what this Mark meant—even as I still longed so fiercely for the man who had worn it before me.

Even though that man would have hidden it from me my entire life.

It had been a long time since I’d really looked at myself in the mirror. My body was starting to look healthy again, the muscles more defined on my shoulders and arms, the high slit of the skirt revealing a graceful swell of thigh. I turned around and looked at my back. The dress dipped low without the mantle’s cape, leaving it bare. The firelight played over the topography of my skin—tight over newly-developed muscles, stronger than they ever had been even at my peak physical fitness, marred by a few scars from a lifetime of fighting.

I was as strong as I was before. Stronger, even. My body showed it.

I faced forward again, running my gaze from my feet to my face. My face—serious and stoic. Big silver eyes. Low dark eyebrows. Cheeks that were starting to fill out. A mouth that was too thin and serious.

I looked like him.

The resemblance struck me all at once, suddenly undeniable. The coloring was all different, of course, my hair night-black compared to Vincent’s blond. But we had the same icy pallor to our skin. The same flat brow, the same silver eyes.

He spent an entire fucking lifetime lying about what was plainly painted on my face.

But then again, that was our entire relationship. He’d raised me to look at the bars of my cage and call them trees.

And then, finally, my eyes drifted down, past the curve of my jaw, to the very exposed column of my throat. To the two sets of scars there—one I had asked for, one that I hadn’t.

When I went to the door, I left the mantle on the floor.

36

RAIHN

I’d give him this: Cairis was a hell of a party planner. Somehow, within a court plagued by unpopularity, indecision, power struggles, and two ongoing civil wars, he’d still managed to throw together a wedding celebration that looked as if it was held by the grandest of Nightborn dynasties. He’d transformed the castle into an embodiment of peak Rishan leadership. One would never guess that two weeks ago, the place had been stripped bare, caught awkwardly in the transition of a coup.

No, it now looked just like it had two hundred years ago, just newer—right down to the flower arrangements. Someone else might have been surprised that he’d remembered all that detail, but I understood it. I’d been right there beside him, after all. Lots of time to study the details when you’re desperate for something to distract you through the worst nights.

I couldn’t afford to be distracted right now, even though I wanted to be. Neculai Vasarus would not have been distracted—he’d be reveling in this shit. I wasn’t him, but still, I slipped into the role the same way I slipped into the too-tight jacket Cairis had dressed me in—awkwardly, but with enough confidence to make it look like second nature.

The position of every single muscle was intentional—the straight back, the raised chin, the loose, casual grip on my bloodstained wine glass, the steely stare with which I surveyed the ballroom.

The feast had begun. The nobles had started to arrive. All was, so far, going as it should. I kept waiting for someone to flaunt their disrespect. It didn’t happen.

But Simon Vasarus still had not arrived.

Neither had Oraya, though I’d been assured by an openly irritated Cairis that she was coming. Nothing was easy with that woman. It was kind of comforting.

I leaned against the wall and took a sip from my glass. Human blood, of course—it had to be human blood for an event like this, Cairis was insistent upon that—but all from well-compensated blood vendors, and blended with vampire blood and deer blood. More blood vendors would be joining the feast later in the night to offer fresh delicacies too. I’d tripled their pay when no one was paying attention, and commanded Ketura to keep a close eye on them. I knew she’d do it. Ketura was prickly, but unlike most members of my court, she didn’t seem to view my views on humans to be some sort of semi-endearing, semi-irritating eccentricity to be managed.

I’d rather they not be here at all. But change, I had to remind myself, came in small steps. This party had to convince a lot of important, terrible bastards that I was one of them.

So far, it was looking the part.

The blood was sweet and flat, slightly bitter with the added alcohol. Biology meant that human blood would always taste good to me—no moral stance could change that. It seemed like a fucking injustice that human blood, even taken against someone’s will, would always taste good, while a perfectly seasoned steak now tasted like ash unless it was bloody-rare.

Still, since the Kejari, even human blood didn’t hold the same appeal. It tasted… one-note. Either too savory or too cloying.

Since the Kejari.

No, since a certain cave, and a certain woman, and a slew of tastes and sounds and sensations that I’d probably be chasing for the rest of my damned life.

I swirled the blood around in the glass and my eyes fell to my thumb—the faint jagged mark on the pad, mostly healed.

I didn’t want to admit how many times I’d looked at that mark these last few days.

How many times I’d thought about the exact sensation of Oraya’s tongue against my skin. And fuck, the look of primal pleasure on her face—that was something I could drink up for the rest of my life.

It was pathetic, the things I clung to with her. The soft, hungry press of her tongue. The lash-flutter of pleasure. The moan when I’d touched her wings, the way her legs had fallen open, the way her back had arched—the way she’d fucking smelled, so aroused, like she—

Ix’s tits. What was wrong with me?

I snapped myself out of that train of thought with another long drink. I wished there was more alcohol in it. I craved beer. Human beer.

Another set of nobles arrived and bowed before me. I gave them impassive stares, polite greetings, and waved them away, accepting their submission as I should—like a king who expected nothing less.

They glided across the ballroom to pay their respects to the couple of honor. Vale accepted their congratulations as I had, while Lilith stood somewhat awkwardly at his side. Cairis had told her, a little rudely, not to talk if she could at all help it, and she was following his orders for the most part. Still, every time a guest walked away, she would whisper in Vale’s ear excitedly—no doubt peppering him with constant questions.

Vale didn’t seem to mind, though. Seventy years with the man and I’d never seen him smile so much.

I watched them, frowning, brow furrowed.

“You’re staring.”

Mische’s voice almost made me jump.

I glanced at her and did a double take.

She grinned, spinning around.

“Right? Cairis let me pick it out myself.”

She looked like a literal ray of sunshine. Metallic gold fabric wrapped around her body, the skirt layered and flaring more than typical House of Night style usually dictated. It had no embroidery, no accents, but what it lacked in decoration it made up for in that brilliant color, extra striking against the bronze of her skin. It was sleeveless, the neckline open. She wore a pair of long black gloves that reached her upper arms—I couldn’t help but linger on those, knowing why she was wearing them.