Chapter Thirty-One #2
“Nothing wrong?” he repeats, face twisted in a snarl. “Is that what you think, Claude? You think you don’t deserve this? As if you haven’t made a mockery of me and the Vulpe Court for years, haven’t wasted the gift that I bestowed upon you?”
He shoves Claude back against the wall with a hard thump that makes me wince.
“You pathetic, useless waste of my blood and my time—”
My fear is so great that stepping forward feels like fighting against a strong current, but I do it anyway, forcing my shoulders back and my head high. “How dare you speak to him like that,” I say.
Ambrose pauses. His head turns slowly toward me, his mouth curved into a small, dangerous smile that doesn’t reach his dark eyes. “How dare I?” he repeats. “How dare you speak to me at all, little valentine?”
“Don’t,” Claude grits out, though I’m not sure which of us he’s speaking to.
As Ambrose turns fully in my direction, Claude raises a hand to grab at his sire’s sleeve.
But Ambrose’s hand moves faster, reaching out to close around Claude’s fingers—those long, gentle artist’s fingers—and twists them sideways with a swift, cruel crack.
I cry out. So does Claude, though he tries to muffle the sound.
“Silence,” Ambrose orders, and Claude’s mouth clicks shut. His eyes burn, shifting frantically from Ambrose to me as his sire releases his broken hand and steps toward me.
“Lord Claude is a better man than you will ever be,” I say, refusing to back down.
Having his attention on me is terrifying, like a snake’s head swinging in my direction, but it means his focus is off Claude.
Still, as he takes a step toward me, I take an automatic step back.
“He deserves better than you,” I whisper.
Ambrose smiles, slow and dangerous. “I made him,” he says. “I decide what he deserves.”
“He doesn’t belong to you.”
Ambrose arches a brow. “Claude,” he says, “get on the floor.”
Claude grits his teeth. His expression is pained as he slowly lowers himself onto his hands and knees.
“Lower,” Ambrose demands, his eyes on me instead of his fledgling.
Claude then lowers himself until he’s flat on his stomach against the floor. He presses his cheek to it as he looks over at me and gives the slightest shake of his head, his eyes pleading.
“Need I further demonstrate my power over him?” Ambrose asks, smiling like this is a game.
“You’re only demonstrating your cruelty,” I say. I take a deep breath. “And how pathetic you are, to take advantage of someone helpless against you.”
Ambrose’s mouth flattens, the humor disappearing in an instant and leaving something cold behind. “Clearly, teaching you manners is yet another thing that Claude has failed at.”
“I only give respect to those who deserve it.”
In the blink of an eye, Ambrose is in front of me, pushing me back against the wall.
I swallow a gasp as he grabs my chin. “You little brat,” he hisses.
When he’s this close, and this angry, the pretense of manners falls away.
His face twists into something hateful and inhuman.
“Clearly you have forgotten your place. If you were in my household, I’d have you whipped. ”
His grip on me is iron, his fingers digging bruises into my face. “But I’m not in your household,” I grit out, refusing to back down. “You have no power over me.”
He smiles, and it is somehow more dangerous than his fury. “You think so?”
His fingers slide down to my neck and squeeze harder.
I choke. Try to gasp for air that doesn’t come. My feet kick uselessly as Ambrose lifts me off the floor, holding me against the wall one-handed without any effort. He studies my face as I struggle and claw at his hand, and his grin broadens.
I try to speak Claude’s name, but I can’t and he can’t help me. He’s bound by his sire’s commands to grovel in silence, to do nothing but watch. Ambrose could kill me, and Claude wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. Would he go so far? Fear swells in my chest as my vision starts to go dark.
I pushed him to get him away from Claude. I didn’t think he’d really hurt me, not badly. I’m a valentine, I’m supposed to be protected. But perhaps I underestimated his power, or at least his rage…
My eyelids flutter shut. My struggles weaken.
“Ambrose!”
The grip on my neck weakens, and I gasp, sucking blessed air into my raw throat.
Ambrose drops me as he turns, and I catch myself on my palms and knees before I fully hit the floor.
Panting, I look past Ambrose to see what has caught his attention: Claude, somehow speaking despite his sire’s command.
As I watch, he presses himself—slowly, painstakingly—up to his knees and lifts his head.
It looks as though he’s straining against an enormous weight, his head and shoulders bowed beneath it, but he grits his teeth and lifts his head to fix his sire with a look of murder.
“You…” He forces out each word as if it’s painful. “Harmed. My. Valentine.”
“Oh, boo-hoo,” Ambrose drawls. “Go ahead and report it to Vulpe, see if they believe you.”
“No. I demand… the oldest right.” Claude’s shoulders square, the words coming easier now.
He lifts one foot beneath him, and then pushes up onto the other so he stands tall before his sire, defiance in his eyes.
I can’t see Ambrose’s face, but I can sense the sudden tension in him as he watches Claude shake off his orders.
“You can’t be serious,” Ambrose says.
“Trial by combat,” Claude says. “With the court as witness.”
My gasp hurts my still-raw throat. No. He can’t. “Claude…” I try to speak, but can’t manage more than a whisper.
Ambrose’s laughter drowns me out. “Oh, you little fool,” he says. “I accept your challenge. When do you wish to meet your demise?”
“Why hold off?” says Claude. “Tonight. Midnight.”
No, no, no. I want to scream it, to beg and plead for Claude to stop this, but I don’t have the air or the strength, and this has a horrible sense of inevitability.
“Very well,” Ambrose says, still grinning. “If you’re so eager. I’ll see you shortly, Claude.”
He leaves us there in the parlor without another glance back.