Chapter 35
Ambrose stood in the tiny room in the depths of the Viper Morada. The hay bed Lila and Marcus once slept in at his back. His eyes flit to the window before him—the one he’d stared through, looking at her from the other side. He pushed it open now, letting the night air breathe into the room as the royal blue sky illuminated with a crescent moon. He’d lit a number of white candles, lighting the room in a soft golden glow—much like Lila herself.
He wasn’t sure what brought him here. Maybe it was the fact it was the last place he thought Lila would venture alone. Or maybe it was to see where all of her hurt and pain had happened.
Maybe it was to feel confined himself, to punish himself in her pain, in a prison of the only true thing that mattered to him.
For the last three days, Ambrose had been torturing himself, blaming himself, and berating himself. And all he could think of was Lila’s scream—a scream of pain he caused. His hands shook whenever he thought of it, as rage and guilt exploded through him so, too, did sorrow and pain. He felt his heart breaking, like he was coming apart from within.
He still remembered how the sunlight felt against his skin, unprotected from Lila’s power. It stung. Almost as much as the thought, Does this mean she no longer loves me?
But just as his nails were beginning to mirror the moon in the sky on his palms, the air in the room shifted.
The smell of warmth and flowers and sunlight filled his senses. The sound of her breathing, her tentative steps, her heartbeat. It was what overtook his entire world, his very existence. It was a smell he’d come to associate with home, a song that had become the sound of his soul. At once, Ambrose was all too aware Lila was getting closer to him, and that he had nowhere to go. But more importantly, he knew he couldn’t run and leave her to once again face the memories of the Morada alone, he knew he needed to stay.
For she was the sun of his universe, and he would orbit around her for as long as she allowed, even if it meant he got so close, it burned him right up.
He turned, and the air escaped his lungs as his gaze fell on her. She always took his breath away, no matter how she looked or what she wore. No matter if she was covered in dirt and sweat and gore. No matter if she were mad at him, or sleeping, or gasping for breath during training. She was everything to him.
And he needed to tell her. To show her.
“Lila, I—”
She jumped, her eyebrows shooting up—but she didn’t run, like he feared she might. She did, however, put up a hand, her lips set in a pout and her eyebrows drew together. “Did you have Pollock bring me here? And have Rebekkah make me wear this dress?”
He looked her over, noticing now the dress in question and the pesky bird on her shoulder, jumping from foot to foot.
Ambrose took a deep breath. “I wish I could say yes. But, I fear those two have probably become better friends than we’ve realized.” Then, Pollock cawed, and flew from Lila’s shoulder, happily squawking all the way to the exit of the hall. Ambrose released that held breath. “And as for the dress, it does look absolutely lovely on you.”
Her cheeks turned a shade of pink he loved, as his eyes roamed over her. He knew she could feel the heat of his gaze, as it took in the cinched waist, the deep sweetheart neckline, the straps that crossed at the hollow of her neck and draped on her upper arms, the transparent lilac sleeves.
When he finally looked up, he saw Lila taking him in as well.
Ambrose wore nothing as lovely as Lila. In fitted black pants and a flowy top he took from the ship, he looked more like a pirate than a lord. But wasn’t that the way of him? A scoundrel. A rogue. A villain.
He rubbed his hands together anxiously, noticing not for the first time that he had not worn any rings in days. The only thing on his fingers was the matching crow and sun tattoo he shared with Lila on the ring finger of his left hand.
His gaze caught on the matching tattoo across from him, watching as she absent-mindedly rubbed her right thumb over it, as though it were a real ring. Then, those gorgeous brown eyes finally met his again.
He began, “I’m sorry I haven’t been—”
“It’s nice to see you—” she was saying at the same moment.
They both pulled their lips between their teeth.
At the sight of her clamped lips, a feral streak of rage and lust shot through him. But he would not give in to that. Not when he had so much to apologize for. Instead, he stared at his feet, opening and closing his fist, and heard Lila gulp.
“You go first,” she said, her voice just a bit breathier than usual.
Ambrose took another deep breath—he’d been doing that so much lately—and stepped forward. He wasn’t sure what he’d say, what he’d do. But he knew what he needed to do.
“There is so much I want to tell you, so much I want you to know, how I feel, what has happened—”
“Then tell me,” she pleaded, meeting him in the center of the room. “You ran off the other day before I could say anything. And you haven’t answered me through the Concord in days.”
“I know. I am so incredibly sorry, I—I—”
She grabbed his hands. “Stop apologizing. I love you. Nothing you do will change that. I was just startled. And it’s not like I didn’t like it, but the moment you said—”
“Little Mouse,” he cringed. “I know. I didn’t even realize until later.” He squeezed her hands. “I know you are more than that. You know that right?”
Lila shook her head. “It’s not that. I am more than that, and I have never questioned if you see me as just a murine, or think less of me. It’s not that.”
“Then–”
“It’s Hektor,” she cut off. “He called me that while I was here. He and Ciro. As a way to get to me.”
Ambrose’s blood boiled and he cursed himself all the more.
“But you didn’t know,” Lila gushed out. “You couldn’t have known, because I didn’t tell you. I want to tell you.”
Ambrose nodded. “I want to tell you too. But there is . . . too much to say. I’d rather show you.” He squeezed her hands, waiting for the pensive expression between her lips, her brows. “There is a way I can show you through the Concord. But you have to ask me for it as part of our original bargain. A favor.”
Her eyes searched his. He felt her skepticism, her concern. “Are you sure? Is it not an invasion?”
He shook his head, white hair falling around his shoulders. “I want you to know everything of me, Lila Bran. You asked for all of me, and I want to give it to you.” He took a step closer and pressed his forehead to hers. “Every ugly detail. Every speck of history.”
She put her hands on his waist, pulling him closer. “Then ask me the same. There are so many things that happened, in this room alone, the last three months that you need to see.”
Ambrose nodded. “Deal. Ask me, love.”
She pulled his head down, and stood on the tips of her toes, bringing her lips softly to his. After a gentle kiss, she whispered, “I have a favor. Show me everything.”
It triggered an electric current down his spine, and as he pressed his forehead to hers, memories hit him as though he were reliving everything.
His childhood, his mother and father, his brothers. Joking around as they ate meals, caring for the land—joy and warmth.
Then white skin, but no more different than him. Human.
Until they wanted more. The attack, fear, pain, anguish. His mother, raped. His father, killed. His brothers, tied and bound and stolen. His home was gone, and he felt waves as he was pressed tightly in the bowels of a swaying ship to other Black bodies. Hot, sticky, stuck.
Then, the day once more, in a foreign land.
Masters, owners, repressors—his brother, gone.
Alone.
Years and years, and then—a new master. A master with a wife who felt like sunlight when she smiled at him. Who was kind to him. The couple paid him, considering him a worker, not a slave. Things were . . . better.
Then they killed her. Witch, they said. He felt the fire’s heat on his skin, and he knew the evils of man.
The master went mad, and killed so many. He’d been . . . a strigoi—now that Ambrose could put a name to it. But in a flash of light, he looked human once more. Human, but hungry. Hungry for blood. Gore and screams raked the streets. People ran, and fear licked up Ambrose’s legs, his arms, his throat.
Then the original vampire turned Ambrose.
In the first years, all he knew was blood. Drinking blood, shedding blood, craving blood. He needed it, more than anything, more than life, more than safety. And though years had begun to pass, he did not age.
But he was so cold.
And the sunlight he’d once craved, the sun he remembered—it was no more. And that hurt most of all.
So he continued killing. He became a nightmare to those in Europe, traveling from country to country, killing and drinking and everyone feared the murder of crows that signaled the arrival of the monster of Malvania—the monster that only came out in the dark.
He remembered the bloodshed on his hands, and he remembered the apathy he felt as he gazed down at his latest victims.
Something had to change.
The world around him was falling apart. The children from the original vampire’s next unions took the world, changing so many into the creatures of the night, and most humans either became prey or transformed into predators themselves.
Then, the original vampire was killed by humans, starting the Mass Death, and the eight vampire manors were formed.
One by one, four of them fell.
Ambrose, fighting, his knuckles bloodied, his teeth covered in gore. His stomach turned from the black, slick blood of other vampires. And all the while, he was alone.
He knew others, he knew Gustov Nostro of the Maggot Mansion, he was close with Darius Maronai of the Arachnid Estate, and Lord and Lady Reinick had once been his ally.
But he was so alone, as he waited in the Crow Court.
So alone as he butchered the other four manors.
Then, after their fall, years. Years and years—of nothing.
Slivers of joy, but nothing more.
Until her.
Lilac hair, flushed cheeks, and a warmth trickling under his veins at her mere presence.
Sitting on his foyer floor, bruised, beaten, bitten. But there.
A whirlwind of falling in love. Of sunlight. Of recognition, for he knew she matched his soul.
For he knew she was the Sun Child.
And he knew, he was wholly, undoubtedly, hers.
Her taste, her touch, her voice, her moans, her laughs, her lips, her hands, her eyes, her heart, her love. It was all his.
But then her tormentors returned. Returned and threatened to take her. They were hurting her, Drusilla was hurting her. Her brother, Constance, strigoi. Lila was going to be attacked, she was going to be killed by family—by those she loved. He couldn’t let that happen. He wouldn’t let that happen.
Teeth.
Then, shifting.
“Run,” he’d said.
And she ran. And he chased. And he loved it. It made his chest pump— brought his body to life. He wanted to taste her, in more ways than one. He wanted her blood. He wanted her cum. He wanted to sink his bisected jaw in her neck, in her shoulder, in her chest.
When he bit her, it was like he was home again for the first time since he saw his family in his homeland. It was like he was eating a meal for the first time. Like he was feeling the sun again in nearly five hundred years.
And he wanted more.
He wanted her blood, he wanted to drink it from her neck. He wanted to pleasure her as he did so—wanted to feel every part of her cave for him.
He was an animal. A fucking rotten, disgusting animal.
Sunlight.
He was cured. But the taste of her still lingered on his tongue.
Still lingered on his tongue.
It still lingered on his tongue. And he wanted more.
And through their separation, he wanted more. His heart broke every day without her. He was crumbling like ash without her, like a vampire in direct sunlight, without her. But with her?
He was the rays of the sun. Impossible without her. Carried by her.
He was the monster of Malvania and he wanted more. He wanted his queen to fuel his power, to quench his drive, to be his sole reason for existence. So when he saw her chained and shackled, as though she could ever belong to someone other than him, someone at all, it drove him mad. The monster from his past came out.
And it never went back in.