DAMIEN'S POV
I have destroyed kingdoms. I have watched empires crumble into ash and seen the strongest men beg for a quick death at my feet. In a thousand years, nothing has ever truly moved me. My heart was a frozen relic, a stone encased in the ice of my own making.
Until Blair.
And now, looking at the pathetic human whimpering on my floor, I felt a sensation I hadn't experienced in centuries: a raw, suffocating surge of jealousy.
"Don't kill him, King," Blair had whispered.
Those words should have meant nothing. I should have snapped the boy's neck just to show her that my mercy was a myth. But the way she looked at him—even if it was with cold indifference—maddened me. There was a history between them. A shared past that I could never be part of.
"Take him to the oubliette," I growled at the guards, my voice vibrating with a lethal edge. "Keep him alive. For now."
As the guards dragged the boy away, I didn't turn around. I could feel Blair's eyes on my back. I could feel her warmth, that maddening, flickering flame that seemed to grow brighter every time I was near her.
I walked toward the balcony, gripping the stone railing so hard it began to crack under my palms. I was a King. I was the Shadow of the North. I was Target Thirty's executioner and savior all at once. I wasn't supposed to care about the ghosts in her head.
I am not possessive, I lied to myself. I am simply protecting my investment.
I needed her blood. I needed her essence to fuel the restoration of my magic. If she was distracted by some former lover, her essence would be tainted by useless human emotions. That was the only reason my claws wanted to unsheathe every time she breathed that boy's name.
"Damien?" Her voice was soft, hesitant.
I turned slowly. She was still on the bed, the red silk sheets draped around her pale body. She looked so fragile, so broken, and yet… she was the only thing in this room that felt real.
"You asked me not to kill him," I said, my voice low and dangerous as I approached the bed. "A bold request for a sacrifice whose life belongs to me."
"He's a part of a life I've already left behind," she said, her eyes meeting mine with that same defiance I had grown to crave. "But I don't want his blood on my hands. Not when my hands are finally finding something else to hold."
I climbed onto the bed, looming over her. I trapped her between my arms, my face inches from hers. I could smell the lingering scent of our night together on her skin—a mix of my dark musk and her sweet, wilting floral scent. But beneath it, there was that new, golden aroma.
My blood was changing her.
"You talk of hands, little bride," I hissed, my hand sliding up her thigh, gripping her with a firmness that made her gasp. "But your heart is still whispering his name. I can hear it. It skips a beat when you look at that door."
"It skips a beat because I'm afraid of you, Damien," she countered, her hand reaching up to touch the scars on my chest. "Not him. Never him again."
I wanted to believe her. I wanted to sink into her and forget the Council, forget the thousand women, and forget the curse that was slowly turning me into a monster. But denial was my only shield.
She is just a vessel, I reminded myself. A tool for my return.
But if she was just a tool, why did I feel this agonizing need to protect her? Why did I feel a strange comfort when she leaned her head against my shoulder? I was a creature of the night, a predator who thrived on fear. I wasn't built for comfort. I wasn't built for the quiet intimacy she offered so freely.
"You are Target Thirty," I whispered, my lips brushing her ear. "Nothing more. When the ten days are over, I will take what remains of your soul, and I will move on to the next. Do you understand?"
I was lying to her. And I was lying to myself.
Blair smiled, a sad, knowing smile that cut through my defenses like a blade. "Then why are you still holding me so tight, My King? Why haven't you left to find Target Thirty-One?"
I growled, my fangs lengthening as I buried my face in her neck. I didn't answer. I couldn't. Instead, I bit her—not hard enough to drain her, but hard enough to leave a mark. A claim. I drank a single drop of her blood, and the power that surged through me was unlike anything I had ever felt. It wasn't just magic; it was her.
Her heart began to race, that frantic, irregular rhythm that I was starting to realize I couldn't live without.
"Because you aren't done yet," I muttered against her skin, my voice thick with a hunger I could no longer deny. "And because I've decided that no one—not the Council, not your past, and certainly not Death—is allowed to take you until I say so."
I pulled back, looking into her eyes. I saw the pain there, the flicker of the illness that was trying to steal her away. And for the first time in a thousand years, I felt a spark of true, unadulterated rage toward Fate itself.
She is mine, the beast inside me roared.
I wasn't comfortable with her. I was addicted to her. And as I pulled her closer, ignoring the cold logic of my mind, I realized that my denial was the only thing more fragile than her heart.
I would keep the boy in the dungeon. I would use him as a reminder of what she had lost, and what I had gained. But most of all, I would use him to make sure she never looked at anyone but me.
"Stay," I commanded, my voice cracking with an emotion I refused to name.
"I have nowhere else to go," she whispered.