Liora's POV
I forget how to breathe.
The throne room is enormous—black marble floors, pillars that disappear into shadow, a ceiling so high I can't see it. Blue torches burn along the walls, making everything look cold and dead.
But none of that matters.
Because sitting on the obsidian throne at the far end is the most beautiful creature I've ever seen.
Prince Theron Nightshade.
Dark hair falls past his shoulders, so black it seems to absorb light. His face is perfect—sharp cheekbones, strong jaw, lips that would be sensual if they weren't pressed into a hard line. He wears black clothes that make him look like a living shadow.
But it's his eyes that steal my breath.
Silver.
Actually silver, glowing like captured moonlight. They fix on me the moment I enter, and I feel it everywhere. Like he's seeing through my skin straight into my soul.
He's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
He's also radiating hatred so intense I can feel it from across the room.
Cassiel's hand touches my lower back, urging me forward. "Walk to the throne. Don't look away from him."
My legs shake, but I obey. Each step echoes in the massive room. Vampire nobles line the walls, watching with hungry eyes. I count at least fifty of them, all ancient and powerful and predatory.
But I only see him.
Theron doesn't move as I approach. Doesn't blink. Just watches me with those glowing silver eyes, his expression carved from ice. His hands grip the throne's armrests so hard I hear stone cracking.
He hates me.
I can see it in every line of his body, feel it in the cold radiating off him. He hates me with a passion that burns hotter than fire.
But why? I haven't done anything. I just got here.
I stop twenty feet from the throne, my heart pounding so hard it hurts. Cassiel moves to stand beside the throne, leaving me alone in the center of the room.
Theron leans forward slightly, his silver eyes boring into mine.
"Name."
His voice is like dark silk over steel. Beautiful and deadly.
"Liora Ashborne." I'm proud my voice doesn't shake.
"You're not crying like the others."
Is that disappointment in his tone? Does he want me to cry?
"Would that make you happy?" I ask before I can stop myself.
The throne room goes dead silent. Several vampires gasp. Cassiel's eyes widen in warning.
Theron's jaw clenches, the muscle jumping. "Nothing about this makes me happy."
We stare at each other. The air between us feels electric, charged with something I don't understand. It's not just fear. It's something else. Something that makes my skin prickle and my dying heart race.
His eyes narrow. "You're not afraid."
"Should I be?"
"Most sacrifices arrive terrified. Begging. Crying." His voice is cold, but I hear something underneath. Pain? Anger? "Why aren't you?"
Because I'm already dying, I want to say. Because this is just a different kind of death.
But Cassiel's warning echoes in my mind. Keep your secrets.
"Maybe I'm braver than the others," I say instead.
Theron's lips curve into something that's not quite a smile. "Or more foolish."
He stands, and the movement is liquid grace. Predatory. He's taller than I expected, his presence filling the room even from twenty feet away. When he descends the steps from his throne, every vampire in the room tenses.
He moves toward me, slow and deliberate. Each step makes my heart pound harder. I want to run. Want to hide. But I force myself to stand still.
He stops five feet away, studying me with those impossible silver eyes.
"You're sick," he says quietly.
My blood turns to ice. How does he know? Can vampires smell illness?
"I don't know what you mean."
"Liar." His nostrils flare slightly. "I can smell the blood sickness in your veins. You're dying."
Panic claws at my throat. "You can't tell anyone."
"Why would I?" Theron tilts his head, something predatory in the movement. "You're going to die anyway. Whether it's the sickness or me doesn't matter."
The words are meant to hurt. They work.
"Then why does it matter if you know?" I force myself to meet his gaze.
"It doesn't." But his hands curl into fists at his sides. "You're just another sacrifice. Another meal. Another name I'll forget."
"You're lying."
His eyes flash dangerously. "What did you say?"
"I said you're lying. You remember all of them." I don't know where the words come from, but I can't stop them. "Every single woman who died here. You remember their names. Their faces. You carry them like stones."
Theron's expression twists with rage and something that looks like anguish. In a blur of motion, he's right in front of me, his hand gripping my chin and forcing me to look up at him.
"You know nothing about me," he hisses.
His touch is ice cold, but somehow gentle despite the anger in his voice. His thumb brushes my jawline, and electricity shoots through me. I should be terrified. He could kill me right now with just a thought.
But all I feel is my racing heart and the strange pull between us.
"Then prove me wrong," I whisper.
We're so close I can see flecks of darker silver in his eyes. See the tension in his jaw. Feel the cold of his breath.
For one heartbeat, his mask slips. I see centuries of pain in his face. Loneliness so deep it has no end. A man drowning in guilt and horror, barely holding onto his sanity.
Then the mask snaps back.
He releases me and steps away like I burned him.
"Cassiel." His voice is rough. "Take her to the east wing. She's not to leave without permission."
"My prince—"
"Now." The word cracks like a whip.
Cassiel moves to my side immediately, taking my arm. But I don't move. I keep staring at Theron, at the war raging behind his silver eyes.
"What are you so afraid of?" I ask softly.
Every vampire in the room freezes.
Theron's eyes lock onto mine, and I see it—pure terror. He's terrified of me. Not of what I might do to him, but of what I might make him feel.
"Get her out of my sight," he snarls. "Before I kill her right now and end this."
Cassiel pulls me toward the door. I stumble, my weak legs barely working. But I look back one more time.
Theron stands alone in the center of the throne room, his hands clenched so tight blood drips from his palms. His eyes are still locked on me, burning with silver fire.
And the look on his face isn't hatred.
It's hunger.