“When is it ever?” He shoved off the bed and padded across the room to stand by the French doors going out to the balcony. He pushed the curtains aside. The sun had just set, leaving the world awash in purple shadows. He peered out, then let the curtains drop and turned back to her, crossing his arms over his bare chest as he leaned against the doors.
She tossed the coverlet aside, wrapped the sheet around her like a strapless dress, and walked to him. “Let’s not go looking for trouble. I survived a killing blow. That’s something to be thankful for.”
“I agree, but”—he shook his head—“you don’t seem like yourself.”
Her brow furrowed. “In what way?”
“The way you…” He shrugged. “It’s nothing, I guess. Just the leftover stress of it all. Never mind. I’m sure you’re fine.”
She ignored his sarcasm. “Absolutely.” But she wasn’t and she knew it. He was giving her an out, but he didn’t believe his words any more than she did, and that knowledge hung in the air between them. A shard of thought pierced her mind, but it was a shadowy, hollow awareness she wasn’t ready to acknowledge. And telling Mal her suspicions would only mean he’d rant and rave. That would solve nothing. What was she going to do? Have the signum removed from her skin because of a hunch? Having them torn out once was enough.
“You’re still a bad liar.”
She tried to smile. “See? Nothing’s changed.” She rubbed her eyes and yawned. “I’m starving.”
His eyes went completely silver. He turned toward the balcony as his face shifted into the hard, angled mask of a noble vampire.
She lifted her chin. “So are you. I felt how cold you were when you were beside me.”
He kept his eyes focused on the horizon. “I’m fine.”
“Now who’s the liar?” The urge to touch him, to soothe him, surged through her. Instead, she walked back to the bed and occupied herself with straightening the coverlet. “Let me get a shower, then I’ll get you some blood. Will you ask Velimai to make me something to eat?”
His face human again, he nodded and looked toward her. “Of course. I guess you’ll want to see Damian after you eat. He’s at the freighter, guarding another—”
“Tatiana’s comar is at your freighter?”
“Yes. I know you don’t remember, but you said his name before you passed out. You must want to talk to him about something.”
She sank down on the bed and tried again to recall what the Aurelian had told her, but nothing came. “I must have thought he could help me find my brother.” She shook her head. “I’m not up to seeing anyone yet. Maybe in a day or two. Right now, I just want to shower, eat, and feed you. Then I need to do some thinking.”
He tipped his head to one side as if suppressing the urge to say something. “Your call, but don’t you think it’s possible the Aurelian told you something Damian might be able to help you with? Maybe he knew your brother?”
She shrugged his words away. “Without knowing more than the singular fact that I have a brother, how can he help me? I have no name to give him. No idea who my brother’s patron might have been. Nothing.” She sighed. “It’s so frustrating.”
“What if Damian is your brother?”
She glared at him. “He’s not. Don’t you think I’d know if he was?”
“No, I don’t. You didn’t even meet him when he was here. How could you know?”
“Stop pushing. I’ll talk to him, I will. Just not yet.” She rolled her shoulders again, trying to alleviate the uneasiness coursing through her. Mal’s insistence wasn’t helping her mood.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” He studied her as if she might suddenly grow a third eye.
“I’m well enough, considering,” she lied, nerves fraying slightly. “Please, just leave me alone to shower, okay? I’ll feel better after I eat.”
He held his hands up and headed for the door, grabbing a T-shirt off the end of the bed as he went.
She sighed. She’d apologize for snapping when she went downstairs, but he must understand she wasn’t quite herself at the moment. Why did he have to push so hard?
When the door closed, she walked to the bathroom, dropped her robe, and stared at the signum Atticus had replaced. Nothing about them looked any different than her other marks, and yet she knew that the gold had changed her. For better or worse remained to be seen.
Chrysabelle wasn’t fine—that much Mal knew. Her glow was different. Darker. He also knew that what she didn’t want to talk about—the power from the ring of sorrows being somehow responsible for her surviving the Aurelian’s sword—wasn’t just going to magically wear off. He never should have put his blood into her, never should have let her get the signum replaced, never should have let her go to the Aurelian alone. Never never never. Weakling.
He snorted in anger as he plodded down the steps from her suite, half agreeing with the voices. As if he had any control over any of those things. He’d no more let her die than she’d let him stop her from doing what she wanted. And now there was a price to pay.
How high a price? Who knew. But having the ring’s power coursing through her had to mean more than just keeping her alive when her life was threatened. That was too simple. He ducked into the hurricane shelter room that had served as his sunproof sanctuary and changed into his T-shirt, jeans, and boots. Power had a way of exacting a price for its use. Tatiana was proof of that. So are you.