Chapter 1
His Number One Enemy, De facto Archnemesis, and Perilous, Dark-Haired, Curvaceous, Spitfire Obsessions
Alobaz’s footfalls reverberated off the frigid stone walls of Castle Hawxfure as he climbed its stairs, seeking the highest turret. The legendary warrior, renowned for being more soft- and sure-footed than his brawny frame suggested, stomped up each step. Everyone already knew where he was, where he was going—and where he wasn’t going.
His friends, and the uninvited parvnit and goblin, they wouldn’t mind their damn business. Each hard, angry step—as loud as he could make it—was a warning he hoped they’d actually heed this time.
Leave.
Me.
The.
Fuck.
Alone.
Mauldrene, the mean, terrible bitch of a castle, had no eyes he’d ever spotted, but her relentless shadows encroached on the scant privacy he’d managed to hold on to for himself. She watched—always fucking watched him—casting judgment; he just didn’t know of what sort. The orchestral music she played continually in the background was an itch he could never scratch. How could he hide his actions from a sentient castle that was everywhere all at once, and that he and the rest of the Bazrian Seven weren’t allowed to escape—by order of the emperor?
Scorch the emperor.
At least Baz’s thoughts were still his own. That was something. Especially as they’d been careening toward perilous, dark-haired, curvaceous, spitfire obsessions lately.
If only his plodding were capable of rattling the damnable castle’s very foundations. Maybe then he’d shake some sense into his prisoner deep below in the dungeons!
Despite her evident struggles with bloodlust, she had steadfastly refused to feed from him. She could so simply ease her suffering and yet she wouldn’t. She’d take his cock like it was the key to her salvation, and then refuse the blood that truly was.
Of the Bazrian Seven, Edwidge was the gentlest of them. She was as large and strong as most men, with tender insides that had mysteriously survived the centuries of war they’d together waged all over their world. All Ed had done was ask, “What are you doing with the prisoner, Baz?” and he’d bolted from his seat at the massive dining table, upsetting their dishes and tankards, fleeing like a skittish trufy bird confronted by a predator.
As Baz had stalked away, the concern of his friends had been a searing accusation against his back. He was letting them down, dammitall.
The unforgiving curiosity of the parvnit and goblin had tracked his abrupt departure too.
What was he doing with the prisoner?
He had no fucking clue! Allowing her to sink her claws into him and drag him into a consuming madness? Maybe. Risking what goodness was left in his essence? Probably.
What he knew with certainty was that she wasn’t the prisoner.
She was his prisoner.
His and only his.
No one else’s.
His prisoner was the crown princess of the D’Arco Dynasty, believed dead for so long it was a scorching miracle she was alive at all. Her power and beauty had been lauded in equal measure by history: the most fearsome sänglure ever to emerge from the D’Arco line.
Which automatically defined her as his de facto archnemesis, the one person in the entire Opalese World he should despise beyond reason, that he should want dead—permanently dead this time.
If his father the emperor were to discover Baz had her locked up in his dungeons, he’d expect him to drain her of all her blood, absorbing her power for himself, and to slice off her head and present it as a trophy. Emperor Junot would likely display her head until its bones were picked clean and bleached by the sun, until every Opalesian knew the Rubor Dynasty was superior to the D’Arcos—the millennia-old family rivalry decided once and for all.
But the princess’ head was such a pretty one, and it perfectly matched the most gorgeous body Baz had ever seen. Never in his long, miserable life had he felt the rapture he did when he was buried deep inside her. No experience before her came remotely close. Not even his dear Arabella with her infectious smile had enchanted him so. She certainly had never made him feel like his insides were on fire and the only way to douse the flames was by slamming into her.
It’s desire, not need, Baz assured himself.
The princess was a constant lure, the sun and the moon to his Fuerin Star. The call to see her, to taste her, touch her, feel her—to fill her—wove around him like a hypnotic melody. It suggested he turn around and go down, down, down to the dungeons, where she’d once more muddle his mind. Where his yearning for her would overpower his every sensible instinct for self-preservation. Where he was—apparent-fucking-ly—powerless to resist her.
So he climbed ever upward, winding around and around each stairway Mauldrene deigned to allow him to use. Twice, she’d swung a staircase out from underfoot—when he’d already placed his weight onto it.