Shadow's Claim (The Dacians, #1)

by Kresley Cole

“Wrong an assassin’s woman—and he will make you pay.” —TREHAN CRISTIAN DACIANO, PRINCE OF DACIA, LAST SCION OF THE HOUSE OF SHADOW

“I thought gold was the most precious and beautiful thing on earth. Until I met him.” —PRINCESS BETTINA OF ABADDON, KINGDOM OF THE DEATHLY ONES

She tried desperately to lose herself in memories of a boy with smiling blue eyes and sun-kissed hair. He doesn’t know how much I love him. So many things I wish I’d done—

Trehan was the last born to the House of Shadow, the assassin arm of the family. Though he was a potential contender for the crown—along with four of his lethal cousins—he had no real aspiration to seize it. A quiet loner by nature, he loathed spectacle and attention, was content to blend into the shadows.

For nearly a millennium, he’d been the enforcer of law, a merciless assassin.

“You are the sword of the kingdom, Trehan. Dacia will be your family, your friend, your mistress, the grand love of your life. That is your lot, Son. Want for nothi...

I want for nothing. This was his lot, to await down here in the earth until Mother Dacia needed his sword. To strike, execute, then return. So why this unaccountable restlessness? This sudden . . . frustration?

After rereading the same page a dozen times, he closed the tome, staring into the flames as he struggled to identify the hollow ache in his dormant heart. His fingers tightened on the book, sinking into the cover. Gods damn it, what have I left undone? Yet the dread only mounted. Then came one word, a whisper in his mind. . . . Protect.

Just three years older than Bettina, Cas had come striding into the chamber, dashing in his armor. All conversation had stopped, the crowd parting as he’d offered a bound bounty—one of her realm’s most feared foes. He didn’t present it to Raum. But to her.

Her features were most often described as “elfin.” One problem: she wasn’t an elf.

As was the Sorceri way, she also wore a mask. The scarlet silk was a thin band around her eyes, making their color stand out—champagne-brown irises circled with a ring of black. According to her godmother, Morgana, her wide eyes were her best feature.

Though Raum and Morgana, the Queen of Sorceri, were lifelong foes of each other, they agreed on one thing: Bettina’s need for a husband/protector/king. But since they couldn’t agree on a particular male—or even a particular species—they’d decided to host this tournament.

Abaddon had once been known for blood sport within its notorious Iron Ring—and for virgins offered up as prizes.

If Bettina ever got famous enough in the Lore to earn a trailing name—like Maksimillia the Butcher or Lothaire the Enemy of Old—it would probably be Bettina the Pushover. Maybe Bettina the Easy Mark.

“I’ve broken one of their laws. They will send him. Straight from the Realm of Blood and Mist.”

“Their people rarely leave—and then only in a cloaking mist that makes them invisible. Though most ‘otherlanders’ are forbidden within, I had a powerful friend, a sponsor of sorts, so I was allowed inside.”

“But once an otherlander enters, he can’t ever leave—except upon pain of death. Yet I did. I couldn’t stay in that place any longer, one just as primitive as Abaddon. Here, at least I’m free to roam where I will! And my sponsor . . . he changed. Drastically. So I escaped, never thinking their killer could find me on our plane, but I sense him.

“The Prince of Shadow. The most soulless bastard I’ve ever met. He comes in the mist, an assassin without equal. To be targeted by him is to be as good as dead.”

“My cards have been dealt. At least no one can say I didn’t pay what I owed.” He gave a bitter laugh, as if at an inside joke.

Recalling his many conquests and his love of females, she glanced up at him from under her lashes, licking her lips. “Come back to me, and I’ll welcome you with open arms, Caspion.” He groaned. “You’re still a virgin, and the future queen of Abaddon. I’d have to wed you to bed you.”

The Prince of Shadow had a sanctioned kill to make. Just moments ago, he’d used his scry talisman—a priceless crystal passed down through his house for generations—to locate his target here.

He scanned his surroundings, not to admire or explore—but to be prepared for any threat. Dacians were a breed of observers, watchers from the mist. Forever to observe, never to engage.

Trehan rarely enjoyed anything. He drank blood, but didn’t taste it. If he slept, he woke unrefreshed. He performed his duties for Dacia, but the satisfaction he’d once derived from his job had . . . ebbed.

Trehan had heard the whispers about him. Some Dacians likened him to a ghost, calling him a shade—a play on his Shadow title—because his life consisted of nothing but silent, grinding toil, devoid of goals or plans. They conjectured that he had no desires—secret or otherwise.

He’d been taught early not to desire, and certainly not to aspire to more than service to his kingdom. Yet three months ago, an old longing had resurfaced, one he’d thought he’d been rid of after all this time—

One window in particular held his attention. A lone lantern glimmered inside, like a beacon. For some reason, he felt nigh compelled to investigate it. Which didn’t make sense.

Though the Dacians had mystically hidden their realm, no cloaking was foolproof forever. As an added security measure, they’d outlawed anyone from leaving without a special exemption. Disobey—and die.

With a determined shake of his head, he dragged his sights toward the talisman’s flare over the tavern. Yet just as quickly, his traitorous gaze slid back to the lantern.

Shelves of well-worn books lined a gallery, tomes on design, fashion, ancient art, weapon history, and . . . goldsmithing? All had pages flagged. Trehan was someone who revered weapons—and books; the specific focus of this collection intrigued him.

Most Loreans were frozen into their immortality when they were physically strongest, never aging past that point. She couldn’t have been more than twenty when she’d transitioned. He’d turned at age thirty-one.

Her mask was slim enough that he could see most of her pixieish features: high, defined cheekbones, an elegant jawline, and a gracefully pointed chin. Yet her carnally red lips seemed out of place on her finely-boned face, more suited to a siren. He couldn’t tell if she’d be an incomparable beauty, not until she opened her eyes and removed her mask.

For a male who enjoyed little, he was liking this inspection very well.

His gaze dipped to the delectable swell of her breasts in that revealing top, and lingered. He noticed his hands were opening and closing of their own accord, as if ...

He’d all but put a Bride out of his mind. So why was his gaze rapt on this otherlander’s breasts . . . ?

Even as he mused these things, he inched closer to the bed. Before, he’d thought the beacon in the window had drawn him; now he wondered if this female had somehow been the draw.

But zeii mea, my gods, what eyes she possessed! The irises were the lightest brown, ringed with stark black. He could stare into them for lifetimes.

Her lips curled into a grin that would’ve stolen his breath. If he still breathed.

All at once, he understood why he hadn’t disappeared, why he’d let his mist fade. Because deep down, he’d wanted this creature to see him.

She reached for him, boldly laying her hands on his torso. When he perceived the warmth from her palms, he shuddered like a young vampire, unschooled with women—

Yet Trehan knew what was actually happening. The sound was his heart awakening for her, a drum beginning to thunder in his chest.

This ethereal creature had roused his body! Soon his lungs would fill with breath, his shaft with blood. An otherlander belongs to me? A sorceress?

To return home, Trehan had to eliminate all who witnessed him—except for his Bride.

Thoughts of witnesses and ancient laws faded, replaced by an instinctive protectiveness.

He merely needed to complete this blooding, then take his new Bride back to his underworld realm. His target could wait until she was safely ensconced in Dacia. Then this delicate sorceress would grace his home—and his bed—for all eternity.

I am ready for her. At that moment, his lungs started to expand. He inhaled deeply, until they felt too big for his chest. Blood rushed to his shaft, hardening it. He groaned as it distended against the confining fabric of his pants.

Long-dormant drives came roaring back to life—to mate, to claim, to bite? After eons, he hungered.

He’d gone the better part of a millennium without bedding a female. Will you forgive how out of practice I am with all this?

At the sight of her rosy nipples tightening before his eyes, Trehan’s powerful, rational mind went blank, his questions forgotten.

Trehan could only stare, riveted by his Bride’s pert breasts and taut nipples, savoring her every stroke upon his skin. How long he’d gone without a single touch! This creature belongs to me, he told himself again. To me alone—

At the thought of pinning down her writhing body to spend deep within it, need surged within him, as if a dam had been breached.