stabs him in the neck.”
“Roksana…” Tucker sighed, though there was a definite sting behind his eyes.
“A man kept from battle is a man unfulfilled.” She slapped Carl on the shoulder. “You will stick close to me, da? We will mutilate and make merry.”
Carl had stars in his eyes. “And who are you, my dear?”
“I am Roksana. Former vampire slayer. Daughter of the Queen of Shadows, but we don’t like to talk about that, since she tried to kill me. Very touchy subject.”
“Oh.” The older man nodded affably. “I see.”
Down went Carl.
Tucker caught him at the last second. “And we were making such progress.”
Mary clawed the windowsill, frustration and misery climbing the walls of her throat.
Down below, hordes of vampires and fae arrived. Wedding guests preparing to become allies in the underworld. They didn’t have any weapons, save the odd blade. And themselves. The beings below were ancient, in some cases, and their ability to manipulate objects and the atmosphere around them was dangerous enough on its own.
Four days had passed since Tucker left her and she felt every second of the separation. Reluctantly, Tilda had confirmed what Hadrian said. That once mated, a vampire cannot live long without his mate, but she was beginning to wonder if she’d survive. There was a rabid stirring in her stomach that wouldn’t abate. Her skin itched and her body wouldn’t stay still—so the fact that she’d been locked in this room was a horrible hindrance.
Mary wrung her hands and paced, her nerve endings enflamed. And she couldn’t help but compare the sensations to days earlier, when she’d sat in the passenger seat of Tucker’s car, her entire being demanding she have him. Demanding she give to him. The desire he’d stirred by defeating those slayers in the diner wild and urgent.
After days left alone with nothing but her thoughts, she’d come to the conclusion that something inside her had known all along she was Tucker’s mate. The hunger demanded to be fed now and the only thing it wanted was his touch, his bite, his presence.
She was going to go mad without it.
No exaggeration. She was finally living up to her nickname.
Gibberish words bubbled over her lips as she walked the length of her bedroom prison, her eyes heavy and red from lack of sleep. She was still wearing Tucker’s shirt. Tilda had forced her to bathe this morning, but she’d put the garment right back on, desperate to keep Tucker’s scent nearby. But it was no longer calming her, it was turning her more and more frantic. She had to get out of this room.
But how?
Hundreds of vampires and fae filled the manor’s grounds below. She could never escape surrounded by heightened hearing and sharp eyes. Even if she tried, she ran the risk of Hadrian taking his wrath out on Tucker.
Tucker who was dying without her.
Mary dropped into a crouch, shoved her balled fists up against her eyes and screamed through her teeth, but the brand on her throat lit and turned the sound into a pitiful whimper. Her scattered heartbeat echoed so loudly in her head, she didn’t hear the footsteps approaching her door. Didn’t know anyone was coming until Tilda stepped into the room with a white dress draped over her arm.
The tension between them was thicker than molasses.
At times, over the last few days, Mary swore she could see a dawning remorse on her mother’s face, but it quickly hardened to resolve. It was the latter that stopped Mary from commiserating with Tilda or trying to break through. To make her see that nothing was worth aligning with Hadrian. Not a reunion with Anton. Not being brought to the Faerie Realm.
Not her sight.
But Mary was angry, dammit. Angrier than she’d been in her entire life, and part of her just wanted to remain this way, locked up tight, alone in the misery.
Tilda drew up short when she got close enough to see Mary’s red face, but recovered with a brisk smile. “It’s time, daughter.”
Time for her wedding.
Honestly, she was surprised it had taken this long since Hadrian was eager for the alliance to be solidified. Now, she could only regard the beautiful white lace garment with a dispassionate stare. This was what it felt like to be truly powerless. Her exhaustion and heartache were dragging her down, down, to the depths of a murky swamp and nothing felt real there. Not the dress, not her mother, not the colors and objects around her. Sight was almost a curse