More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
And so he remembered. He remembered her.
She’d called him Armiger; not Lord or Lady,
but death had a curious way of remolding her features,
You’ve always been a soft-hearted fool, Son. You got that from your mother.
“Armiger Remy,” she whispered in newfound recognition. And then, one final time: “Please.”
Gently, he placed her head against the crook of her arm and breathed a small prayer over the body, as he’d always done and was expected to do,
He’s not just a hunter, he’s the damned Butcher’s get!”
“Who turned her?” Remy’s voice was a snarl. He pressed the second dagger against the vampire’s chest.
that set off warning bells in Remy’s head the way Lady Daneira and the vampire youths had not. Had the stranger attacked, Remy would have been dead on the ground by now. Should have been.
there was a spark of sudden interest in that coal-black gaze, the amber highlights within it making him look all the more arresting. He was staring at Remy like he’d only just realized he was there. And then the lord smiled with a rapacious, predatory hunger that had nothing to do with Remy’s attempt to kill him, and that made Remy’s hands dampen with sweat.
The vampire took the tip of his chin between his own thumb and forefinger like his face was a butterfly specimen he’d freshly plucked from air, and Remy froze.
The fresh intensity in the lord’s eyes had only increased, and it made Remy feel… uncomfortable. Vulnerable.
You could hammer at the diamonds of those dark eyes for years and never make a dent. “I very much hope not, Pendergast,” he said.
The man who had bested him was a Summer Lord. A Third Court vampire. His father was going to kill him.
Quintin Yost was the duke’s physician.
But his unabating eagerness for bodies to dissect had always repulsed Remy.
His first sight of the duke was a frail, spotted hand at the armrest, pale-skinned, trembling from prolonged rheumatism.
His muscular build had shrunk, his handsome features losing the fight against bouts of long illnesses exacerbated by the physical demands he’d placed on his body for decades as a young hunter, all the injuries and fractures he’d accumulated and neglected against his physicians’ orders finally coming home to roost.
it felt almost ridiculous, the terror the man could still inspire in Remy—and the guilt.
Behind that mask was the rest of Remy, screaming into the void.
They were the four hundred and ninety-seven reasons he’d been able to control his panic that first time, focusing on them instead of the weight of her on his body, pretending that she was gasping, moving, doing all of that to someone who was not him.
The last time you told her to pass me among her friends like a stallion put out to stud was because you wanted any information the lord high steward had of the Night Empress’s movements—and in the end, he had none to give.
Remy was the vehicle for both their revenge and their spite, and by the time he’d been old enough to understand, he was already trapped.
“You look so much like your mother,” he finally said, looking slightly repulsed by the observation, and turned away.
This peculiar unity had been borne from self-preservation rather than any heartfelt solidarity.
Remy was tempted to tell her that Astonbury took a particularly nasty delight in draining him of blood this way because Remy had yet to come back to Elouve in a body bag like the man wanted,
She was fifteen years his senior and enchantingly beautiful, with large blue eyes and chestnut hair and the fullest lips.
Bit of a groomer here
“Darling.” Her voice sounded like sex and sin, smoky and low. “I was worried you’d turned down my invitation.”
Remy fought to keep his breaths measured.
but the steel in her voice left no room for argument.
“¡Ay, carajo, Pendergast! I thought he’d asked you, too. Is he still sore about your father? I’d thought they’d buried that hatchet months ago.”
It was his turn to sigh. It happened every year. Different faces, always the same dare.
He stepped into the crisp, night air, and then, losing his courage, he began to run.
He’d broken this rule before, with Elke, and had gotten away with it.
Even here, he could see evidence of Giselle’s desire to assert control, to demand and dominate.
“The fuck’s wrong with your heart?” “Nĭ hĕn cūlŭ,” the girl said severely, in what sounded like Qing-yen.
She was flirting. Strange, given that she was of the species he made a living off killing.
And that to me, is much more breathtaking than any gown you could wear.”
Remy proceeded, without missing a beat, into a steady stream of profanities. She stared at him, wide-eyed. “I suppose those are good, too,” she conceded when he finished.
“Swag-bellied cockchafer!”
trap fucking trap shit shit, this was a fucking trap running a marathon through his head.
“You,” he snarled. “You’re Zidan Malekh?”
“We never got around to introducing ourselves, did we? I am Song Xiaodan, a daughter of the Fourth Court.
it felt like a betrayal of the friendship she had attempted to strike up with him, and he mourned its premature end.
“The Fourth Court heiress wants to tup you, Remy.”
Elke was risking much to be his mistress, no matter how temporary the position was.
Your father was in the wrong for forcing you into this when you weren’t old enough to know better.”
it came as a surprise to learn that the poor youth had been resurrected through some unknown means and had resumed preying on the villagers within Grenarde, leaving behind bodies drained of blood, just as before.
Subject is— Subject appears to be moving.
yakhchāl
