Chapter 8 Kieran
CHAPTER EIGHT
KIERAN
The corridors of Shadowborne stretched ahead like a mausoleum draped in black velvet shadows.
I led Cyrene from the dining room and down the main hall, keeping my shoulders rigid and my words clipped with the formality expected of a king.
My belly, however, betrayed me with a constant low flutter.
Every time her gaze lifted to follow mine and every time a stray strand of hair brushed her cheek, I felt the same pull toward this woman I had six years ago.
Time hadn’t dulled her brightness. It had only made me crave her more.
“And these tapestries were woven in the northern looms of Ashcombe. They show the victories of my great-great-grandfather against the Nightfrost clans,” I said, hoping my voice sounded steady, not like I was reciting lines to distract myself from the way she glowed in the gloom.
She tilted her head, one eyebrow quirking. “They’re very dramatic.” She peered around, a frown blooming on her face. “Is it always this dark here?”
“Tradition dictates…” I realized she wasn’t criticizing the castle. She was exposing a truth I hadn’t admitted to myself. Shadowborne was dull. Grim. A testament to order and a tomb to joy. And she was sunlight in that tomb.
The scent of her magic hung in the air, like sugared fruit and lightning, making my fangs ache. Ridiculous. I’d just fed from her.
I hadn’t lost control like that in years.
When we reached the foyer, Quandary swooped down the staircase. The drake landed on her shoulder with a soft thud, curling his tail around her neck. His scales shimmered, and he purred in a way that made the hairs on my neck rise.
When the drake nuzzled her cheek, she laughed, and my pulse doubled.
“Hello, you menace,” she said, stroking his snout.
Quandary released a tiny jet of flame at a particularly dour portrait of my great-great-great-great Aunt Brunhilda hanging nearby.
“Quandary,” she said. “Did you just…?” She cocked her head back to scold the drake. “Fire belongs outside, not on Kieran’s ancestors.”
“Flames might actually improve her appearance.” Fire and vampires didn’t mix, but seeing the happiness in Cyrene’s eyes made me forget every rule I’d ever lived by.
Her startled laugh rang out, and it hit me square in the chest. I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed that sound.
“Truly, I don’t think Aunt Brunhilda would mind.” She might. Who knew? She was long dead before I was born. “She was always one for going out into the sunlight. Said she wanted to tan.”
Cyrene snorted. “And she didn’t turn to dust?”
“Old wives’ tale. We can go out in sunlight. It just…”
“Scorches you?” Humor lurked in her eyes.
“From what I’ve read in the old papers, Brunhilda did eventually obtain a tan, though it was speckled with bright pink splotches.”
Cyrene’s laugh grew. “Oh, my.” She covered her mouth, but humor lingered in her pretty brown eyes. “I shouldn’t be laughing about this. Poor woman.”
“She went out many times, so maybe she thought the marks enhanced her beauty?”
Our combined laughter echoed in the hall. The strange thrill of the connection left us startled, as if we’d accidentally broken some invisible rule.
Cyrene cocked her head and looked to her left, though there was nothing there.
She nodded. “Cordelia said I need to laugh with you more often, that you need it.”
I frowned. Cyrene wasn’t making this up, which meant there was a ghost haunting my castle. I wasn’t sure what I thought about that.
But she was right. I did need to laugh more often.
“This way.” I waved for us to continue through the portrait hall, where we passed stone statues and more paintings of my ancestors.
At the end, Cyrene jabbed a finger at a towering black cabinet sitting beside a row of equally black tables. “Do you ever get tired of living with all this dark furniture?”
I froze, panic spiking through my strict control. “This is…practical.” I opened the dual doors, showing her the neat arrangement of small figurines inside the cabinet—all made from black stone. “It’s orderly.”
“And soul-sucking.” Tease lurked in her voice. “It’s not just your castle or your furnishings. Even the people living here are dour. Your staff is quite stoic. Have any of them attempted to lighten up?”
“They’ve tried. The last one’s still in recovery.”
Her lips twitched. “From what?”
“Smiling practice.”
“Tragic.”
“We hold an annual memorial.”
Her chuckle came quick and bright, like sunlight daring to exist among all this black stone.
I smiled back. The moment lingered, sweet and dangerous, until I forced my expression into something more kingly.
She wasn’t mocking me. She was only pointing out what I’d stopped seeing long ago. Shadowborne was what I’d needed it to be, steady, orderly, and unchanging. But somewhere along the way, it had hardened into a mausoleum.
Maybe I had, too.
We moved into the main parlor. Our bodies brushed together as she leaned forward to examine a small sculpture perched on a glass table.
I wasn’t looking at her lips. I was just…
Alright, I was looking at her lips.
A spark leapt between us, a pulse skittering up my spine. My jaw clenched, and I forced my body to remain still. But my heart rate betrayed me. Her joy was contagious. Delicious. Distracting.
I bit back a hiss and chastised myself. Her warmth was something my kind was never meant to hold. The castle’s shadows had always felt like home until her laughter touched them, and I realized how long I’d been living half dead.
I caught myself staring at the curve of her wrist, the soft glow of her magic flickering in response to me. I reminded myself I was a king first, a man second. Yet every part of me wanted to close the distance that had stretched for six long years.
We left the parlor and continued down another hall.
Quandary darted ahead, firing a tiny flame at a grim tapestry.
Cyrene swore. “Come back here. Quandary, no!”
“Let’s let him decorate. He may improve things.”
Her eyes met mine.
I faltered, then straightened my kingly posture. But her warmth and closeness made me painfully aware of how much I wanted to abandon formality altogether.
The hallway felt impossibly long, yet impossibly short, because every step I took beside her seemed to compress years of longing into seconds. My thoughts shifted between facts about the castle, the ache in my chest, and the thrill that she was laughing at shadows where I’d only ever seen order.
We paused before a towering black archway, and her fingers slid across mine again.
Another tiny pulse of magic flared between us.
I caught her shiver and bit my lip, reminding myself of the rules.
Of appearances. Of the kingly composure I was expected to maintain at all times. Someone was always watching.
But beneath that stiff composure, I burned with the knowledge that nothing in this castle had ever stirred me like Cyrene did.
“Even you could stand to loosen up.” She tilted her head, watching me carefully. “You’re not entirely made of stone, you know.”
“I’ll have you know I’m practically a carnival of restrained emotions.”
She arched a brow. “A carnival?”
“A very organized one. With posted hours.”
Her grin was bright enough to make my carefully built composure flicker.
Fates help me, she didn’t even have to try. One teasing look and my self-control went up in smoke.
“You think so?” I said, trying for dry dignity.
“I know so.” She fluffed her skirts and strode past me, smelling of sunlight and trouble.
I followed because I could do nothing else.
By the time we reached the final corridor, I’d pointed out enough architectural trivia to make even the stone busts look bored. We returned to the foyer.
Cyrene glanced back toward the grand staircase, her lips twitching. “How many rooms are there in this place? A hundred? Two?”
“Three hundred forty-seven,” I said.
Her eyes widened. “You counted them?”
“Someone had to.” Since the guards near the door were watching and no doubt listening, I kept my tone as dry as possible. Although, I could feel the edges of my mouth about to commit treason.
She laughed, and the sound rolled through the halls like sunlight breaking through fog.
It was hard to command respect when your heart was busy tripping over one woman’s happiness.
“Do you ever get lost in here?” she asked, squinting toward a wing on our left that vanished into gloom.
“Never.”
“You hesitated.”
“I was being dramatic.”
She smirked. “You’re definitely something.”
I cleared my throat, motioning toward the front doors. “Shall we continue outside?”
“I’d love to see your gardens.”
When we reached the threshold, I plucked two umbrellas from the rack beside the door. Made of black silk stretching over silver ribs, they were the kind that unfolded with a whisper instead of a snap.
We stepped outside.
She raised an eyebrow. “A parasol? How very civilized.”
“Civilized for you.” I opened hers with a flick and gave it to her, opening mine after. “For me, it’s survival. As I said, we don’t burst into flames in sunlight.”
“Just blisters, then?”
“An inconvenient sizzle. There’s usually hissing involved.”
She gave me a mock wince. “Charming.”
“We do our best.” I stepped into the sunlight, the umbrella shielding my hands and face. The rest of me remained covered by my clothing.
The air hung with the scent of damp soil and blooming nightshade. The gardens stretched out around us, rows of black-bloomed lilies, glimmering duskroses, and dark vines that shimmered with silver dew.
Cyrene’s gaze darted everywhere. “It’s beautiful in a haunted cemetery sort of way.”
“That’s the highest compliment this place has received in ages.”
As we walked, I named the flora like a scholar showing off to a bored crowd. “Moonfire ivy. Wraithbells. Silverleaf. Don’t touch that one. It bites.” I pointed. “The crimson bloom there is called Veilheart. The latter is noctilucent and glows after sunset.”
Her lips curved. “How do you remember all of this?”
“I enjoy gardening.”