*Mykhol*
Mykhol knew he shouldn't but–
It's her fault for being so damned tempting. He looked up again, his breath catching in his throat like silk on thorns.
Ana was still at her desk, hunched in concentration, the warm glow of the rising sun filtering through the arched windows and gilding her silver hair with fire. The crimson shawl draped over her head caught the light like liquid garnets, the fabric seemed to breathe with each of her movements. Beneath its soft folds, wisps of silver escaped to frame her face—delicate tendrils that caught the morning light and made his fingers ache to brush them back.
The sight curled something beneath his ribs—satisfaction? Of course. Desire? Oh, most definitely. Ownership?
Her full-rimmed lashes cast shadows on her cheeks as she bent over the parchment, dark and thick as raven's wings. When she blinked, they swept up and down in a rhythm that made his pulse skip. The hollow of her throat pulsed with her heartbeat, visible above the modest neckline of her gown where her collar had shifted slightly.
Mykhol felt the smile pull up the edge of his lips to let his fangs fall free. Sharp and ready to eat. His vermillion eyes darting to that soft hollow, the way her skin seemed to glow pearl-pale in the morning light. How he wished to lick that spot, to taste the salt of her skin, to feel her pulse flutter against his tongue and—
Suppose Mother and Father could see me now. Mykhol tapped the edge of the book in his lap, the leather binding worn smooth from countless fingers. The sound was soft but deliberate, like a cat's claws on silk. Let them. Because things were going exactly as he said they would.
He sat sprawled across the study's long couch like he was already crowned emperor but already grown bored with his coronation. One arm slung over the backrest with practiced indolence, the other propped across his stomach as if the very air was his to command. His spidersilk tunic shimmered with iridescent threadwork—subtle but impossibly fine, embroidered with a coiling silver dragon that seemed to writhe and glint as he moved. The fabric whispered against his skin with each breath, a sensation so luxurious it made him want to purr. He rubbed one lazy thumb over the embroidery now, slow and deliberate, feeling the raised silver threads catch and release beneath his touch.
Mykhol smelled faintly of bergamot and crushed violet, a new cologne he'd chosen for this exact reason—something rich, heady, unforgettable. The scent clung to his pulse points like a lover's caress, designed to linger in memory long after he'd left a room. Something he was still waiting on Ana to notice or compliment him on. At least, he hoped she would. His eyes darted up again to his ever-vigilant cousin, pupils dilating slightly as he watched her shoulders shift beneath the fall of her shawl. Slightly annoyed that she seemed to refuse to leave the desk and join him on the couches, her spine straight and stubborn as a blade.
This stubborn habit to put work before me will have to go. Mykhol didn't like that Ana could still find reasons to keep distance between them. Excuses to not be alone with him lately, always finding some urgent matter that required her immediate attention.
Her resistance was annoying, yes, but...cute. Like a kitten arching its back, all bristle and no real bite. He drummed his fingers on the book with a soft beat, the rhythm matching his heartbeat—or perhaps trying to sync with hers across the room. The scent of bergamot curled around him like a second skin, as indulgent and arrogant as his smile. She was still trying to keep up the act of being unmovable, untouchable.
Even after he'd seen her blush when their eyes met—that delicious pink stain spreading across her cheeks like spilled wine. Or how her breath would hitch when they touched, a sharp little intake that made his fangs ache. All the signs were clear, written in the language of her body that she couldn't quite control. Ana was affected by him. And Mykhol wanted so much to just get up off this damn couch and stride straight over and crash his lips down on hers and taste that breathless surprise and—
The crinkle of someone clearing their throat had Mykhol twist his lips into a scowl, the fantasy shattering like glass. He'd forgotten this moment wasn't just his.
Across from him, Pendwick sat stiff-backed in the worst chair in the room—a straight, carved wooden thing with no cushion and a creaking joint that groaned with every shift of his weight. The boy's latest finery did him no favors: a tunic of deep forest green silk that should have complemented his pale complexion but instead made him look sallow, like a plant starved of sunlight. The expensive fabric hung awkwardly on his slight frame, too large in the shoulders, too tight at the collar. Money couldn't buy presence, and Pendwick wore wealth like an ill-fitting costume.
Mykhol had purposely made him take that seat, had made certain to stretch just far enough to block the rest of the couch before Pendwick entered, claiming the comfort with the lazy entitlement of a cat in sunshine. He was being petty, sure. But then again, the fangless wonder needed to understand who had real control here.
Since he doesn't have anyone to hide behind. Mykhol shifted on the couch with a soft creak of leather, adjusting the fluff of the pillows with deliberate pleasure while shooting a look at the willowy boy. The young Celbest lord flinched straighter in his chair when he did, but not before a grimace of pain crossed his features—fine-boned and sharp, like porcelain about to crack. The wooden chair was hard to sit on for so long; he was hurting.
Good.
Mykhol shifted a pillow to drop behind the couch with subtle dominance, the sound of expensive fabric hitting expensive fabric. Tactical comfort, psychological warfare wrapped in silk and down.
Life, in summary, was good.
Both obstacles to the plan were gone. The king was still parading in Dawny, longer than even Mykhol would have guessed, but all the better. As for the annoying brown-noser, Admiral Nugen—Ana's loyal bloodhound—was still off kicking up sand with his tail wagging, chasing shadows in circles. A complete waste of time and resources. And Mykhol couldn't wait for the human to crawl back, head low and defeated as he'd come up empty-handed, his failure written in the dust on his boots.
Which will continue to work in our favor. Mykhol noted, rubbing the spine of his book with absent fingers, feeling the raised gold lettering beneath his thumb. But that wasn't what had him humming with soft satisfaction, the sound barely audible but rich with contentment. There was one more piece, the most important. And Ana... Ana had started reacting. She looked up when he spoke, her full lashes lifting like curtains to reveal those crimson eyes. She flushed when he stood too close, a delicate bloom of color that started at her collar and crept up her throat like dawn. Not much, not enough to name—but enough to taste on the air between them. To want with every fiber of his being.
Mother and Father are already enjoying their newfound riches. Mykhol smirked, touching the sleeve of his tunic with proprietary pleasure. His mother had been quick to use the royal tailor, her fingers trailing over silk samples like a woman starved for beauty. This tunic was the most expensive one yet, the silver threading alone worth more than most nobles' entire wardrobes. He was better dressed than even Pendwick and his family's legendary wealth, the dragon on his chest seeming to mock the other boy's simple, if costly, attire.
But, of course, Ana hadn't noticed. Not yet.
But one day, she would. And when that day came, she'd be the one sneaking glances at him, aching the way he ached now—that sweet, sharp hunger that made him feel both powerful and desperate.
Mykhol curled his lips around the thought like savoring wine. Everything was going so well he barely had room left for worry. His only true challenge was deciding which companion to enjoy later tonight, which willing neck to grace with his attention. What fine lady from some greedy or eager house would he bless with his presence this evening? The palace had never felt so full of options, beautiful girls practically throwing themselves at his feet. Almost too many to choose from.
Still, none of them compared to her. None had that particular combination of strength and vulnerability, that silver hair that caught light like captured starfall, those lashes that could cut glass.
Mykhol felt his chest pang with unfulfilled need, sharp and sweet as a blade between his ribs. Not yet. He just needed to wait a bit longer and—
The thought splintered as the knock broke through the room like a stone through glass.
"Your Empress." One of the guards stepped inside, breathless and flushed from haste, his armor clanking softly with each movement. "An urgent report."
Ana's head snapped up, silver hair catching the light as her shawl shifted. "Is it from Admiral Nugen?"
There was a flicker of hope in her voice—a soft lilt that made something in Mykhol tighten with jealous fury and triumphant anticipation all at once. She reached for the offered message with quick, eager fingers, her full lashes fluttering as she focused. But as her eyes skimmed the page, the light drained from her face like water from a broken vessel. Her mouth tensed into a tight line, her shoulders rising slightly, held too rigid with barely controlled tension.
"This—" she whispered, the word sharp at the edges, broken glass in silk.
"What is it, Your Empress?" Pendwick asked, already rising from his tortuous chair with creaking joints and rustling silk.
Ana opened her mouth to speak, but Mykhol didn't wait for permission or invitation.
"Here, let me see." He was beside her in a flash, moving faster than either of them could object, his boots silent on the stone floor despite their haste.
The hem of his tunic whispered against the desk, rich spidersilk brushing parchment as he leaned over like a predator claiming territory. One hand settled on her shoulder, feeling the delicate bone beneath the fabric of her gown and the soft wool of her shawl. The other moved higher, fingers threading behind her neck with deliberate intimacy, gentle at first—too casual, too familiar. His palm rested just at the nape where her shawl had shifted, thumb lightly tracing the line of silver hair that escaped its confines as though anchoring her there. As if guiding her closer, finally able to release some of the tension he'd been holding back.
He didn't need to touch her.
But he did. Had to. The compulsion was stronger than hunger, stronger than reason.
The scent of her hair—sandalwood and something uniquely her, soft and familiar as childhood dreams—filled his lungs as he looked down at the message over her shoulder. Her temple brushed the silk of his tunic as he leaned in, close enough that his lips nearly brushed the shell of her ear, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her skin.
"More supplies were taken," he murmured, letting the words drift into her skin like a caress, feeling her slight shiver in response.
"It has?" Pendwick's voice came from just beside them—thin, uncertain, and painfully young.
Mykhol clenched his jaw, the muscle jumping as he was reminded again that their intimate moment was being observed by the unwanted third party. He let out a sharp, controlled breath before darting an annoyed glance up to the green-clad teen. "It seems so."
But then he felt it—sharp and undeniable beneath his fingertips. A tremor. Her pulse jumping like a trapped bird.
A heartbeat later—a flinch. A real one. She shrank away from his touch, just slightly, just enough to betray that his closeness was not welcome, not wanted, not the comfort he'd imagined it to be.
She tried to disguise it, forcing herself still again with imperial discipline. Tried to act as though she hadn't pulled back, as if his presence didn't unnerve her, didn't make her want to flee. But Mykhol saw it all. Felt it in the tension of her muscles, the way she held her breath.
And something cold slid beneath the warm pride blooming in his chest, sharp as winter wind through silk.
Mykhol's eyes darkened, pupils dilating as his vision narrowed to the point where her pulse fluttered against her throat. His grip didn't tighten—but it stayed, fingers curling slightly with unconscious possession. Firm. Claiming.
What was that?
No. She couldn't pull away from him. Not from him. Not now when everything was going according to plan.
This wasn't fear. It couldn't be. Not his Ana, not his sweet cousin who used to curl up beside him during thunderstorms.
She was overwhelmed, that was all. Tired from the weight of the crown. Sensitive from too much responsibility. She hadn't meant to recoil. She didn't even realize she had.
She's not self-aware. That's all.
His hand lingered with deliberate intent, thumb drifting down the curve of her neck—slow, casual, as if to comfort. As if his touch could somehow undo the rejection, could rewrite the moment into something softer.
Mine. The word echoed in his mind with the certainty of prayer.
He leaned in just a little more, enough that his shoulder brushed hers again, claiming more space, more contact. She didn't pull away this time—but she didn't lean back into him either. Didn't melt against him the way she should have.
She wouldn't say no to him. She couldn't. The very idea was impossible, unthinkable.
But Pendwick had noticed.
Mykhol caught the subtle shift from the corner of his eye—the boy went rigid like a drawn bowstring, every line of his body screaming tension. His brows dipped low over eyes that had gone sharp with something that looked almost like... protectiveness. One step forward, boots scraping softly on stone. Then a pause, as if he was weighing his options, calculating risks.
Pendwick's hands curled into uneasy fists at his sides, the expensive green silk pulling taut across his knuckles.
Oh? Mykhol felt his lip twitch upward, amusement curling through him at the interesting flash of fire, genuine surprise flickering through him.. He'd struck a nerve in the little lord, had found the spine hidden beneath all that silk and politeness.
The boy hid it well, with tight courtesy and lowered lashes—but it was there, simmering beneath the meek exterior like lava beneath stone. His face was no longer blushing pink at the sight of Ana, but looking at Mykhol with everything building behind those dark eyes like storm clouds.
So the boy had a backbone after all.
But it changed nothing. Absolutely nothing.
She was his. Had always been his. Would always be his.
"How is this still happening?" Ana's voice trembled slightly despite her efforts to keep it steady, her doe-like eyes shadowed with worry that made her look younger, more vulnerable. "If this goes on—"
"I'm sure Admiral Nugen will find out," Mykhol said, folding the message slowly, deliberately, savoring the sound of paper creasing beneath his fingers. He could hear her heartbeat in the silence between them, rapid and fluttering. Could feel her breath—shallow now, a little too quick, warm against his wrist where he still held her.
Still, she said nothing about his continued touch. Didn't tell him to stop, didn't push him away again.
Worried. Vulnerable. In need of protection.
Just like she used to be when they were children and she'd run to him. Like she held him as she cried back that day in court. Clung to him like no else ever existed.
That's what's supposed to happen, he told himself, the words steady as a mantra. She needs me. She always has. This is natural, this is right.
But the sight twisted something deep in his chest. It wasn't quite how he'd imagined this would feel. Not exactly the sweet surrender he'd dreamed of.
"Perhaps," he said softly, voice dropping to that register that had made countless girls swoon, "you should hold a meeting today?"
Ana looked up, and their eyes met across mere inches of space. For a second, she really saw him—not the cousin, not the adviser, but him. There was a flash of pink across her cheeks, delicate as rose petals, but it came with something else: the subtle widening of her eyes, the way her pupils contracted slightly. Not coyness or invitation.
Wariness. The look of a deer catching scent of the wolf.
She started to withdraw, shoulders pulling back infinitesimally.
No. No, you're not getting away that easily.
Mykhol smiled gently and leaned in again, his breath ghosting across her ear as he pitched his voice low and coaxing. "Otherwise, the rumors will spread. You know what will happen then."
Ana's expression flickered, uncertainty chasing across her features like shadows on water. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed hard. "That..."
Her voice faltered, the word hanging incomplete in the air between them. Of course it did.
Because she knew he was right. She always knew he was right.
That's right, trust me. Always put all your trust in me. Like you used to.
"You're right." Her tone dipped low, defeated, and the sound made his chest tight with satisfaction and something else—something that might have been guilt if he'd allowed himself to name it.
She stood quickly, the movement sharp and decisive. Her hand brushed his away from her neck with too much grace for it to seem abrupt—but he felt it again, clear as a slap. The push. The retreat. The desperate need to put distance between them.
He blinked, confusion and anger warring in his chest.
His hand, left hovering in the air for a moment, curled slowly into a fist as if he could capture the warmth of her skin that was already fading from his palm.
She wasn't supposed to pull away. Not anymore. Not when he'd been so careful, so patient.
Not anymore.
What was going wrong? Why was she…resisting?
"I'll make the announcement—" she began, but Mykhol was already moving, already crowding her space again with the persistence of tide.
"I'll do it," he said, too fast, the words tumbling over each other. "You should get ready first. Let them see you strong."
"Cousin, that is—" But Mykhol put a finger to her lips before she could finish, the touch light but claiming. Her eyes went wide with shock, and he felt her sharp intake of breath against his fingertip.
He knew she was going to say something typical—how what she looked like didn't matter, how she was Empress and that was enough. But he had more important things to address. Namely, a certain little lord who was suddenly growing a backbone out of nowhere.
"And Sir Pendwick will come with me," he said, pivoting on his heel before she could finish her protest. He caught the boy's awkward start out of the corner of his eye, saw the way he nearly stumbled in his expensive boots.
"That—" Pendwick's eyes darted frantically from Ana to Mykhol, clearly searching for an escape route that didn't exist.
"I mean, it'll be easier with two," Mykhol said smoothly, his hand falling onto the boy's shoulder with enough pressure to make him wince. His fingers found the joint between shoulder and neck, applying just enough force to remind Pendwick exactly who held the power here. "Don't you think?"
"Y-Yes, but—" Pendwick's voice cracked slightly, the sound barely adult.
"Good." Mykhol didn't wait for the end of the sentence, didn't give him time to form objections. "Come along."
He moved deliberately to block Pendwick's view of Ana, his broader frame creating a wall of silk and authority between them. Claiming the space with practiced ease, marking territory as surely as any predator.
"Let's leave Her Empress to prepare."
Pendwick shrank back, his spine nearly folding in on itself as he instinctively tried to make himself smaller, less threatening, less noticed.
"Yes," he mumbled into his collar.
"I won't be long," Ana said, her voice thinner than before, strained like silk pulled too tight. She began stacking her documents with careful precision, organizing them into neat little piles with the kind of obsessive attention that meant she was avoiding looking at either of them.
Another one of her habits when she was upset. She hated disorder, especially when her world felt like it was spinning out of control.
"Take your time, Ana," Mykhol called after her, his voice sweetened with a practiced, intimate lilt that echoed through the stone chamber. Like a husband sending off his beloved wife, casual and possessive and full of future promises. His hand landed hard on Pendwick's back—firm, commanding, herding him forward like a sheep that had strayed too close to his flock.
The door clicked shut behind them with the finality of a coffin lid.
Mykhol let out a long breath through his nose, the sound almost a sigh. He rolled his shoulders, feeling tension he hadn't realized he'd been carrying begin to ease in the blessed silence.
She's just tired. That's all.
She hadn't meant to pull away, hadn't meant to flinch from his touch like he was something to be feared. She wouldn't—not really. Not his Ana.
But before he could fully collect himself, before he could smooth the cracks in his composure, Pendwick spun around to face him.
"Lord Mykhol." His voice was low but taut as a wire, the edges trembling with barely restrained emotion. Anger had transformed his boyish features, sharpening them into something almost adult. "I know that's not why you called me out here."
Mykhol cocked his head with predatory interest, a slow smile spreading across his lips. "So you are smarter than you look." He reached out with mock affection, fingers moving to ruffle Pendwick's carefully combed hair like he was nothing more than a pet.
Pendwick slapped his hand away with surprising force, the sound echoing in the corridor.
"You shouldn't hang over Her Empress like that."
Mykhol's brows arched in exaggerated innocence, though his eyes remained sharp as blades. "Like what?"
"Like—" Pendwick hesitated, clearly battling with how to articulate his accusation without making everything worse. His hands fluttered at his sides like caged birds. "Like that. You know exactly what I mean."
Mykhol leaned in just enough to emphasize their height difference, his presence filling the space between them like smoke. "Like two cousins being close?"
Pendwick's expression darkened, color flooding his pale cheeks. "You—That's not what you were doing, and you know it."
"What am I doing, then?" Mykhol stepped around him slowly, circling like a shark scenting blood. The sound of his boots echoed off the stone walls with deliberate rhythm. "I'm just being affectionate. You know, it might break her heart if I were to suddenly stop."
His hand flexed at his side, fingers curling as he remembered the slope of Ana's neck, the silk of her hair, the way she'd trembled beneath his touch.
Mine.
He turned to face Pendwick with a grin that was all sharp edges and polished cruelty. "Unless you think I'm doing something improper?"
Pendwick's chin jerked up with more courage than Mykhol had given him credit for. "Are you?"
Oh? So the little lamb had found his teeth after all.
Mykhol let his smile curl deeper, slow and wolfish in the dim corridor. "What about you, Sir Pendwick? Are your intentions toward our dear Empress entirely pure?"
"I—" Pendwick's hands moved to clasp in front of his chest, a defensive gesture that made him look even younger. "My intentions toward Her Empress are honorable."
"Oh yes. Honorable." Mykhol's grin widened at the sweet irony. He calls his pathetic little crush honorable. What a child.
Pendwick swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his pale throat. "Yes. So—"
"Then you won't stand in my way... if mine are not."
The blood drained from Pendwick's face like water from a broken dam. "You—so you admit it?" He whirled to face him fully, shock and horror written across his delicate features. As if he couldn't quite believe that Mykhol would say it so boldly, so without shame.
But why not? The game was almost over anyway.
"I admit I don't play fair when I want something," Mykhol said with lazy honesty, examining the curve of his own fingernails as if they were far more interesting than this conversation.
"Fair?!" Pendwick's voice cracked with outrage, the sound echoing off stone. "Her Empress is not some prize to be won—"
But Mykhol was already drifting, his attention pulled back toward the closed door like metal to lodestone.
Just a sliver of wood between us.
His fingers twitched with the urge to return, to open that door and step back into her space and reclaim what had momentarily slipped through his grasp. To finish what he'd started.
Pendwick's sharp breath yanked him back to the present.
"I want you to—"
"You want me to what?" Mykhol snapped, his patience finally fraying. "Should I blush and look away? Should I pine from doorways like some lovesick poet? Like you?"
Pendwick froze mid-step, caught like a rabbit in torchlight.
"You think I haven't noticed?" Mykhol stepped closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous purr. "The secret glances when you think no one's watching? The way you find excuses to linger near her? It's pathetically obvious."
"That's not—I don't—" Pendwick staggered backward, trying to shield himself with his hands as if words could physically wound. Which, Mykhol supposed, they could.
"I'm only here because of duty," he insisted, but the words rang hollow as bells. "Because His Majesty tasked me to be his proxy while he—"
"Ah. So the Celbests aren't interested in power now?" Mykhol said, grin stretching into something venomous. "Not trying to shove a weak little heir in Ana's path to try to restore some of that fallout for the mishap of your late fathers with the last Empress?"
Pendwick's jaw twitched, and he looked away—the gesture as good as a confession.
"Did I strike true?" Mykhol's voice was silk wrapped around steel.
Pendwick said nothing, but the shame burning in his silence was answer enough.
Not so pure after all, are we? Laughter bubbled in Mykhol's throat, rich with satisfaction. Neither of them were saints, it seemed. The only difference was that Mykhol had the honesty—and the power—to admit what he wanted.
He stepped forward again, using every inch of his superior height and breadth to maximum advantage. His presence swallowed the narrow hallway, commanding the space in a way that made Pendwick seem to shrink by comparison. The boy might be dressed in silks that cost more than most people's yearly income, but Mykhol—he was born to wear such finery like a second skin. His boots were polished to mirror brightness, his tunic fit like it had been sewn directly onto his frame, and his fangs... his fangs were real.
Everything about him was better. Worthy of sitting beside a throne—or on one.
Unlike the pretender cowering before him.
He let his gaze drift deliberately to Pendwick's mouth—where that carefully carved prosthetic fang glinted in the dim corridor light like a lie made manifest.
"I've been here since the beginning," Mykhol said, his voice dropping to silk and honey and poison. "You? You're a footnote. A desperate afterthought. Too late to matter."
"Too late?" Pendwick finally looked up, meeting his eyes with something that might have been defiance if it weren't so obviously terrified.
Mykhol's smile widened, triumphant and cruel as winter. "Because Ana is already mine—"
A voice interrupted—soft as spun sugar, syrupy sweet, and rehearsed to perfection. "Lord Mykhol. Good morning."
He turned, blinking once to adjust to the sudden shift in tone and circumstance. A noble girl stood a few paces away in the corridor, one delicate boot positioned slightly forward in a pose she must have practiced countless times in her mirror. Lady Lunelle d'Kareth, daughter of some minor northern count who claimed descent from bloodlines that mattered when the world was younger.
She'd painted her face like she was attending a masquerade ball—cheeks dusted with rose powder that made her skin glow like porcelain, lips stained the deep wine-red of fresh blood, lashes so thick with kohl they cast shadows on her cheekbones. Her bodice was cinched tight enough to make breathing an effort, the stays creaking audibly with each rise and fall of her chest. The top of her silk blouse hung scandalously open, three buttons deliberately undone to expose the graceful curve of her sternum and the suggestion of soft flesh beneath.
Her eyes locked on him with the focused intensity of a hunting cat—smoky, admiring, and absolutely ravenous.
"I was wondering if you were free..." Lunelle purred, drawing out the final word until it dripped with implication thick as honey.
For half a second, Mykhol's pulse jumped—not panic, never panic, but the quick calculation of a predator assessing potential threats. How much had she heard? How long had she been standing there, listening to their conversation?
But her smile was too vacant, too perfectly polished to hold any real intelligence behind it. A beautiful vessel with nothing inside but vapid ambition. She hadn't been listening to the substance of their words—just prowling the corridors like a cat in heat, looking for attention from the right sort of man.
Not a threat.
Just an opportunity.
He let the corner of his mouth lift in that particular way that made hearts flutter and good sense flee. "Oh?"
Something uncoiled in his spine—not tension, not the sharp alertness of danger, but the lazy satisfaction of a cat spotting a particularly plump mouse. This could be... useful.
"We're not free," Pendwick said stiffly, stepping forward with the awkward gallantry of youth. His voice cracked slightly on the words. "His Lordship and I are to make announcements for court—"
"Oh..." Lunelle's full mouth curved into a practiced pout, lower lip jutting just enough to draw attention to its wine-dark stain. "We're having court session? I was hoping you might have time for something more... private." She bit that tempting lip, the motion slow and deliberate, her gaze traveling down the length of his chest and back up with a flutter of kohl-darkened lashes.
The scent of her perfume—crushed jasmine and something metallic that might have been blood powder—drifted toward him on the corridor's stale air.
"We really should—" Pendwick tried again, his voice pitched higher with distress and duty warring in his chest.
Mykhol raised two fingers and pressed them lightly over the boy's mouth, feeling the warmth of his breath against his skin. "Of course I have time for you," he murmured, eyes never leaving Lunelle's eager face.
Pendwick made a small noise of protest behind his fingers and grabbed at his wrist with surprising strength. "But Lord Mykhol, we need to—"
"Sir Pendwick," Mykhol said without bothering to look at him, voice carrying the casual dismissal of someone used to being obeyed. "Surely you can manage a simple announcement without me holding your hand?"
The boy was becoming tedious, clinging like a burr to his sleeve when there were far more pleasant diversions available.
Then, with a predator's instinct for the jugular, he turned and let his gaze drift pointedly to Pendwick's lower jaw—to that carefully carved prosthetic that sat just a shade too perfect against his pale gums.
"I mean, I know you're not a complete vampire," he said, his tone sharpening on the words like a blade finding its mark, "but surely you can handle something so simple?"
Lunelle's laughter tinkled through the corridor like breaking glass. "Oh my," she whispered, one hand fluttering to her throat in mock shock, eyes sparkling with cruel delight.
Pendwick went rigid as if he'd been struck. His entire frame locked up, shoulders squaring defensively, his face cycling through expressions too quickly to track—shame, fury, humiliation, and something that looked almost like grief. Red burned across his ears first, then flooded his cheeks in a tide of mortification, before draining away to leave him pale as parchment.
But his eyes—his eyes held something that made Mykhol pause for just a moment. Something that looked almost... dangerous.
Then the moment passed, and Pendwick blinked rapidly, turning without another word. His expensive green cloak flared out behind him as he walked away with quick, precise steps, spine straight as a blade despite the obvious tremor in his hands.
So easy. Mykhol watched him retreat, satisfaction warm in his chest. I should have used that particular weakness ages ago.
"Lord Mykhol?" Lunelle's voice rose again, breathy and sweet as spun sugar. She stepped closer, close enough that the warmth of her skin brushed against his arm. Her perfume grew stronger, heady and cloying. "You're so terribly clever. That poor boy looked ready to cry."
The heat between them narrowed to a point of contact where her silk-clad chest brushed his sleeve. Her collarbone glistened with a light sheen of perspiration, flushed pink and pulsing with the rapid beat of her heart. The artery in her neck called to him like a siren song—loud, tempting, available.
Her veins practically sang with invitation.
She's not my type, Mykhol thought, his gaze sliding down her body with practiced assessment. She was too tall, too eager, too visible. He preferred his prey more subtle, more challenging. More like the silver-haired beauty behind the closed door who flinched from his touch and made him work for every glance, every blush, every trembling breath.
But he was hungry. Starving, really, after sitting in the same space as Ana for so long—close enough to smell her hair, to feel her warmth, to touch her skin, but still denied what he truly craved.
And Lunelle was offering herself so prettily.
He smiled—that particular expression that always worked, that half-curved, lidded thing that made most girls giggle and blush and imagine all sorts of delicious sins.
Lunelle responded exactly as expected, another breathy laugh tumbling from her painted mouth. She tilted her head coquettishly, baring more of her throat in the process, the gesture so practiced it was almost choreographed.
She would do suffice.
They all would, really. Substitutes. Cheap imitations of the feast he truly wanted. Poor shadows of the taste he dreamed of sinking his teeth into—not just to feed, but to mark, to claim, to own completely.
But until he could have what he really wanted...
"Now then," Mykhol murmured, letting his voice drop to that register that made hearts race and good sense flee. His gaze wandered slowly, deliberately over her exposed skin—like his eyes were hands and she was already his to touch. "Where were we?"
Lunelle giggled and stepped even closer, her fingers trailing up his sleeve with butterfly lightness. The silk of her gown whispered against his tunic, expensive fabric caressing expensive fabric.
And still, even as his smile deepened and his body leaned into the promise of her warmth, even as he felt the familiar anticipation of the hunt begin to sing in his veins, his mind was already elsewhere.
Behind that door.
With silver hair and crimson eyes and full, dark lashes that could cut glass.
With her.
Always with her.