She would have to brave that murky gauntlet to reach home. Right before her eyes, shadowy buildings moved, narrowing the alleys. The street grew darker, the air thick with foreboding.
That seed of anxiety burned. Vertigo threatened. Her heart began to pound in her ears, her eyes to water. Fear was a great steel fist wringing her chest free of air.
Her bones ached, actual pain arising where her ribs had ruptured her flesh.
All too clearly, she remembered how the skin of her torso had tented over her displaced ribs-like cloth over a dull needle. Only a matter of time. A kick to her side had sent the needle up and through her skin. . . .
The back of her hand found her lips. I want those four dead! Why won't they die . . . ?
"Bettina?" The vampire was right beside her, studying her with eyes that were now steady and green.
He'd betrayed her and she couldn't even manage to leave his company, couldn't slam the tent flap in his face as she stormed off.
I hate this, I hate this, I HATE this!
"What is it, little Bride?"
Swallowing back bile, she said, "I don't . . . I don't like walking in the rain."
"Of course," he said, his expression unreadable.
He knows, he knows! Just as she'd started to shake, she found herself outside the concealed door to her castle. "Y-you traced me?"
"Bett, you never have to walk alone again."
And with just those words, her anxiety ebbed. Which infuriated her! How could he affect her so easily?
How could he have taken her blood?
Daciano could now witness scenes of her life, could see her at her lowest. He would learn of her cowardly, irrational fears.
Then she berated herself. Why should she care what he saw? Her entire court had seen her as a victim, an object of pity.
Bettina feared her vanity had something to do with her anger. She didn't want this handsome, devious vampire-who already seemed obsessed with her-to see her fall. Because he liked her, was attracted to her, seeming charmed by everything she did.
His response to her had been such a balm after Cas had admitted to feeling no attraction to her, that he'd entered the tournament because he was marked for death anyway.
Once a warrior like Daciano saw what she'd really been like-sobbing, begging for mercy-he'd disdain her as well. His lacking Bride.
And then I'll never experience him like this again. Where had that thought come from?
"Dragă," he grated, "tell me who hurt you."
When he grazed his knuckles over her cheekbone, she turned her face away.
"Very well. But I'll have one more boon from you. . . ."
Trehan waited until a light glowed from her bedroom before returning to his tent. For a loner, he found parting from her surprisingly . . . paining.
Inside, he picked up one of her silk gloves, left in her haste. So slim, so small. His fragile female-who'd been attacked by more than one fiend. Who still suffered.
She'd frozen outside, with her heart racing so fast he'd thought she would pass out.
Again and again, he'd reflected over the day in Dacia when he'd awakened with that unusual restlessness, that dread. He'd suspected that he'd somehow sensed her pain and terror, even when buried deep in his kingdom.
Now he was sure of it.
Instead of saving her, he'd been closed up in that coffin of a mountain, frozen in that city, that godsdamned library, never seeing her-never seeking her.
I left her to fate. Unforgivable. Her broken plea echoed in his mind. Not again. . . .
Tonight he'd learned much about his Bride, about her fear-and her desire.
Her desire taught him that her body-and her affections-could be won. Her fear taught him that she needed help to heal.
Trehan's plan had now transitioned and expanded. Win the tournament, find and slaughter her enemies, capitalize on her passion.
He'd taken her blood, the first step in locating her foes. Even though he'd never harvested memories, he assumed that he, like other Dacians before him, was a cosaş. Once he slept, he would dream scenes from her past, reliving them from her point of view.
I know exactly which memory of hers I need.
He traced outside once more, peering up at her room. Her light was still like a beacon, calling him.
Trehan suspected he knew who'd attacked her-if he could dream her memories of them, then it was possible that he could use the crystal to find them. No plane was safe from Trehan, no hiding place too remote.
Wrong an assassin's woman, and he will make you pay.
"Bettina of Abaddon"-he gazed upward, higher even than her spire-"your enemies' days are numbered."
"Well, well, well. The princess was out catting around," Salem said when he returned to her suites, just minutes after she had.
Shit. She hadn't yet had time to recover from the events of the night. Her lips were probably still kiss swollen, her hair even more of a mess than usual.
"Careful, else you'll get a rep." He chuckled. "Soon you'll be as notorious as me."
"And what precisely were you notorious for?"
He gave another laugh. "For how fine I looked. And for how fine I fuc-"
"Okay, then! All clear," Bettina said in a rush. Bath time just got weirder.
"I'm giving you an aloof yet mysterious shrug, dovey."
She rolled her eyes. "I thought you were going to be out spying all night."
"Oh, I was. For instance, I saw you in the vampire's tent, squirming against his naked body like an eel in heat."