Chapter 9 Bronwen
Bronwen
I glanced down the road, nerves coiled tight beneath my skin as I waited for someone—anyone—to spend the night with.
I was on edge, but I kept reminding myself no women had gone missing in several months.
I just had to find someone and get back inside before the sun disappeared completely below the horizon.
I never imagined I would become one of those women waiting on the street for a man.
My mother had always kept me far from this part of town and yet, here I was.
It was easy, though. Bat my lashes, fake a giggle when they flirted poorly, and count down the minutes until sunrise. I waited a while, until a man with several missing teeth zeroed in on me. I quickly spun around and pretended to be interested in the crumbling brickwork of a nearby building,
Gods, was I really being picky?
I glanced at the sky again, nerves grinding tighter, and I was just about to give up when I laid eyes on one of the most beautiful men I had ever seen.
His hair was white and tousled, like snow that had never settled.
It framed a face that was both sharp and unfairly perfect, his skin pale and smooth, his lips full.
His eyes were dark—depthless, endless—and locked onto mine like they could swallow every thought I’d ever had.
He was tall, easily over a head above the crowd, and dressed in a long, tailored coat that shimmered like starlight.
Everything about him screamed wealth, power, and danger.
What was he doing on this side of town? Surely it was for the parties or the extra strong wine. There was no way he was here looking for someone like me. But he was coming straight to me.
He stopped just in front of me, his smile lingering as his dark eyes swept over me with far too much interest. “What’s your name?”
“Elira,” I answered, lifting my chin slightly.
He repeated it, letting the syllables stretch over his tongue. “Elira. Funny. I think that means to be free.”
I raised an eyebrow, unsure whether to be flattered or alarmed. “What are you looking for?”
He tilted his head, grin widening until the tips of his fangs glinted in the dim light, just as his eyes bled into crimson. “I’m hungry.”
I woke with a start, my breath catching in my throat.
The room was dark, save for the yellow glow slipping in through the curtains. My heart pounded against my ribs, the nightmare already slipping away like mist. I reached instinctively to the other side of the bed.
Empty.
My fingers brushed over the cool sheets where he should’ve been. I sat up slowly, rubbing at my eyes, and that’s when I saw him.
August was hunched over the desk across the room, his back to me, illuminated only by the dying flicker of a candle. His shoulders were tense, unmoving. Whatever he was reading or writing, he hadn’t noticed I’d woken.
Or maybe he had.
After the party last night, August brought me to our chambers and told me he had things to attend to.
I didn’t bother staying up to wait for him.
I welcomed the time away, and after being out nearly all night, sleep came easily.
Thankfully, the nights I spent in the woods had already trained my body for this strange new schedule.
I walked over to him to see the journal open before him. Empty goblets and discarded scraps of parchment surrounded him. He had been at this for hours.
He didn’t look up. “You’re awake.”
The word scraped against my skin, but I ignored it. “So are you.”
He grunted, flipping a page with more force than necessary. I drifted closer, drawn despite myself.
The journal looked worse than I remembered. The ink was faded, the language twisted and ancient, half the margins filled with frantic notes in a hand that must have been August’s.
“Anything useful?” I asked, nodding toward the mess.
August finally glanced at me, his eyes rimmed in red from lack of sleep. “If it was useful, don’t you think I’d have done something by now?”
The bitterness in his voice landed hard.
I bristled. “I’m not standing here for fun, August.”
“No, of course not.” He dragged his thumb along a margin. “You’re just waiting to see what kind of monster I’ll be next.”
Snappy.
I crossed my arms.
“Half the journal’s written in dead tongues. It’s not just translating—it’s interpreting. Guessing. Hoping.”
I leaned in, frowning at the unfamiliar script, my arm brushing his where he hunched over the page.
The contact was brief, barely a graze, but it burned hotter than a brand.
I jerked back instinctively, nearly knocking over an ink pot.
August didn’t move.
He just stared at the journal, jaw tightening, a muscle ticking in his cheek.
I swallowed, glancing over to the notes he had written on a scrap sheet of paper. “You found something.”
I hated how aware of him I was. How even now, my body recognized the ghost of what used to be between us.
His eyes flicked to mine before he dropped them back to the journal.
“At the dying of the blood, he will rise not by voice, but by hand. The blade calls him home. It doesn’t make any sense.”
I stared down at the brittle pages. “You know, I’ve been thinking about how the… transfer works. Does Carrow have witches hidden somewhere in this castle to use?”
“No, of course not.”
“Well unless vampires can perform magic and you haven’t told me, something has to hold the magic to use on the Blood Moon. A celestial event could be the activator but a magical object would need to be used. Something my ancestor would have created to use every time it’s needed.”
“So a blade like this says?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “Maybe.”
August glanced up at me and I noticed how his eyes shifted to my lips before he cleared his throat.
“Get ready. You have a dress fitting soon.”
He stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the stone as he pushed away from the desk. Without another word, he strode across the room and disappeared through the door, slamming it shut behind him.
I rolled my eyes and exhaled sharply. The tension still clung to the air like smoke.
Alone now, I wandered the room, taking in the heavy furnishings and dim candlelight. One of the wardrobes caught my attention. It was tall, carved with roses and twisted vines. I opened it cautiously.
Clothes. All his. The scent hit me immediately—sharp, smoky, and unmistakably August. My breath caught before I could stop it. I slammed the door shut.
Another armoire stood to the side. I stepped to it, pulled it open, and found a collection of gowns. Each one was as stunning as the one I wore last night and clearly chosen with care. Silks and velvets in shades of midnight, blood, and gold shimmered in the low light.
I ran my fingers along the fabrics when the door creaked open behind me.
My heart leapt into my throat. I froze, already picturing August catching me snooping. No—I wasn’t snooping. I was doing exactly what he told me to: finding something to wear. The only reason he’d think otherwise was if I looked guilty.
I took a steadying breath and crossed my arms. “That wasn’t nearly enough time to get dressed, August. Trying to catch a glimpse of me naked?”
But when I turned, it wasn’t him.
Corwin leaned casually against the doorframe, his eyes glinting with quiet interest.
“Can I help you?”
His eyes raked over me. “I’ve barely slept since meeting you yesterday.”
I arched a brow. “Yeah, well, I have that effect on men.”
He chuckled once, low and soft. “No, I mean it. I can’t stop thinking about it. About you. Why you’re here. Why he brought you here.”
I said nothing, but my spine straightened.
Corwin took a step into the room. “He’s damning you to a fate worse than death—and yet, his scent is all over you. His eyes never leave you. Gods, he even worried about you eating.”
“It’s to keep my strength up,” I said flatly. “So he can feed on me.”
“And yet… there isn’t a mark on you,” he murmured, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Not one. Just that scar. That’s not what feeding looks like. You should be a bloody mess with bruises and bite marks all over you.”
“He likes to bite me where you can’t see.” I shrugged, even as my pulse quickened.
I was only in a night slip—thin, nearly translucent. There wasn’t much it hid, and I knew exactly what he saw. Perfect, untouched skin.
Corwin’s expression didn’t change. He didn’t look convinced. If anything, he looked more curious than before, like he knew I was lying and wanted to know why.
I blinked and he was suddenly in front of me, so close I could feel the air shift.
“He doesn’t care about me,” I snapped, more to convince myself than him.
Corwin’s lips curled, not quite a smile. “Then let’s test that theory.”
Before I could react, he grabbed me. One arm hooked behind my back, the other beneath my knees, and then we were moving. The room blurred around us.
I gasped, my hands flying to his chest, one gripping his coat as the other sparked with the instinct to pull magic. But I held it back, teeth clenched, heart hammering.
I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing the rising bile back down my throat as fear twisted through me. “Where are we going?”
“We’re going to see if Augustus gets to you before you hit the bottom of the stairs.”
Fuck. That.
I reached for the power inside of him and yanked.
Corwin’s knees buckled. He gasped, collapsing forward and dropping me hard onto the floor.
I stifled a scream as my shoulder connected with the floor. I crawled over to him as he writhed, fingers clawing at the carpet.
“He doesn’t care about me,” I hissed as I gripped his hair in my hand. I pulled more from him, the power flowing into me like wildfire, mending the dull ache in my shoulder. Dragging his face close to mine, I whispered, “He fears me.”
My palm sparked, a ball of fire swirling to life in my hand. But the sliver of logic left in my head—small, stubborn, and annoying—forced itself forward.
Someone would smell him burning. Someone would come. There would be questions.
With a hiss of frustration, I extinguished the flame.