The War of Two Queens (Blood and Ash 4)

He didn’t say anything else, but I knew what he meant. We couldn’t free both of them.

“We will still free him,” Kieran said quietly. “Freeing Cas doesn’t end the war. We will have to go back to Carsodonia.”

I nodded, hating the idea of being so close to my father and doing nothing. But he was right. Again.

“It’s a plan, then?” Kieran asked.

“It is.”

I took yet another breath, and it was less painful than all the ones before it because we would find and free Casteel. And I would make sure that any piece of him that he lost was found once more. He would know exactly who he was when I saw him again.

I would make sure of it.

Chapter 7

Casteel

The relentless throbbing in my left hand had all but gone away, replaced by the gnawing ache that started in my gut and spread to my chest.

Tilting my head back, I managed a dry, scratchy-as-hell swallow and opened my eyes to the gloom of the cell. The flickering candles did very little to cast light, but it still caused my eyes to ache.

And that was a bad sign.

I needed… I had to feed.

I shouldn’t. Not this soon after feeding from Poppy. That hadn’t been too long ago, had it? We’d been on the ship, on the way to Oak Ambler. After I’d feasted on all that liquid heat between her pretty thighs as she read from Miss Willa’s diary.

Damn. I loved that fucking book.

One side of my lips curled up. I could still hear her reading from the journal, her voice becoming breathier with each sentence, every lick. I could still see the flush in her cheeks, deepening with each paragraph, every wet kiss. The feeding had come after that when I’d tugged that luscious ass of hers to the edge of the desk, and my dick and fangs had sunk deep into soft, sweetly scented flesh, reminding me of a light mist of jasmine. Her blood…

Gods, nothing tasted like it—nothing.

I should’ve known the first time I tasted her that she was more than part Atlantian. The taste of her had been strong even then, too potent for someone only of Atlantian descent. But as she came into her power, especially after her Ascension? Her blood was a sultry aphrodisiac and produced a high stronger than any drug one could crush into a powder and smoke. My stare fixed on the candles, tracking the melting wax.

Her blood was pure power—the kind I instinctually knew I needed to be careful with. Because the taste of her, the way it made me feel, it could become the kind of addiction I would drown in.

The roof of my mouth throbbed as my mouth dried more. I could almost taste her now—ancient and earthy, thick and decadent.

Groaning, I bit out a harsh curse as I shifted. I needed to stop thinking about Poppy’s blood. And I really needed to stop thinking about how she tasted between her thighs. A hard cock was so not appreciated at the moment.

How much time had passed? A couple of weeks? Close to a month? More? Time neither existed nor let up in the darkened cell, both an enemy and a savior. But so far, it hadn’t been that bad. Last time, I may have escaped with all my limbs and appendages intact, but that was about all.

But what was a killer was the damp, dark quiet and the worry. The fear. Not for me. But for her. Last time, there had been Shea. And I had worried about her because I cared. I’d worried for my family then. But this was different. Poppy was out there, at war, and the need to have her back, to protect her even though she needed no protection, raked at my flesh with sharp, taunting nails.

Dull pain settled into my brow and temples as I squinted, letting my head roll away from the candlelight. I could go months without feeding if necessary. It was a risk to push it that long, but I could. Though, normally, I was actually eating enough to keep my energy levels up and didn’t have my blood siphoned into small vials routinely.

Having the finger chopped off sure hadn’t helped. I doubted the Craven bite did either.

I looked down at the bloodstained gauze wrapped around my hand and wondered if the Blood Crown had given up on using golden chalices. That was what they’d used to collect my blood before. I wiggled my fingers carefully. One of the Handmaidens had oh-so-kindly applied the bandage while that golden Rev named Callum had made sure I allowed it. Not that I would’ve stopped her. The damn stump of a finger bled like a stuck pig. Stains still streaked my chest and covered the thighs of my breeches. And every so often, fresh blood spread across the once-white and now-rust-colored wrappings, reminding me that the severed skin hadn’t healed itself.