Kresley Cole: Lothaire

No one in the Lore could locate Nïx the Ever-Knowing. . . .

As for his final vow to Ivana, Lothaire was torn. Elizabeth had pointed out: “Ivana wanted you to rule the Horde while Serghei ruled the Daci, joining the two kingdoms, right? What would she have said if she’d known you would take Serghei’s place as king?”

Good point.

Yet then Elizabeth had added, “Of course, if the crown’s just sitting there for the taking, I know my guy is up for the job. . . .”

In order to avoid a large-scale conflict, Trehan had offered to have his assassins eliminate the two other contenders: Kristoff the Gravewalker and Emmaline the Unlikely, the halfling daughter of the Valkyrie Helen and Lothaire’s uncle Fyodor—also known as King Demestriu.

Though both Kristoff and Emmaline were legitimate, neither worshipped the Thirst.

Lothaire had put Trehan on hold, but at the ready. With that thought in mind, he told Elizabeth now, “I go to see one of the contenders to the Horde throne this eve.”

“Do you have to?”

“I must confront Kristoff”— that prick —“to get the bounty on your head revoked.”

She grinned. “Plus you just want to see the look on his face when you reveal yourself to him.”

“There is that.” Knows me so well. “Will you remain here?”

“This one time, yes.”

“Very well,” he said, masking his excitement—because he intended to make a capture this eve. What good was having a dungeon of one’s own unless it was utilized?

Would Elizabeth uncover his coup—truly just a paltry one, probably not even a slaying—in her next set of dreams?

His lips curled. Of course. So he “stored” a message just for her: Admit it, love, you like it when I’m a little bad . . . .

She gazed up at him. “Just don’t forget our new motto, Leo. ‘We can always murder them later, but we can’t bring them back.’ ”

“My wise and clever Bride.” He cupped her nape, drawing her close. “You are everything,” he said simply.

With a contented sigh, she pressed her mouth to his, giving him a kiss that almost landed her back in their bed.

Somehow he broke away, murmuring at her ear, “When I return, be wearing red silk.”

Her irises flashed black, her gaze smoldering. “I’ll make sure you’ll be . . . pleased.”

“Saucy chit,” he teased lightly, even as his body tightened with want. Must make this fast. . . .

Lothaire teleported to Mt. Oblak, the Forbearer seat, and unsheathed his sword. Half-tracing into the Gravewalker’s chambers, all but invisible, he found Kristoff gazing out the open window, his sand-colored hair blowing in the breeze.

The male’s dark blue eyes were clear of bloodlust, but he appeared preoccupied as he stared into the night.

Dreaming of his future Bride? Of the father he’d never known?

Lothaire remembered peering down at Kristoff as an infant. All those ages ago, Lothaire had loomed over his cradle, bent on murdering Stefanovich’s true heir . . . until the fair-haired baby had reached up and grasped at his finger.

As if in recognition.

If Kristoff made one wrong move this eve, Lothaire would remedy his earlier mercy.

Moving like a shadow, silent as death, Lothaire placed his sword against Kristoff’s neck, “Hello, brother. . . .”