Chapter 2 The Duke's Debt

The black vial was still warm against my tongue when Dorian pushed me into his carriage and slammed the door behind us. I had swallowed it in the cathedral. A single drop of something that tasted like burnt honey and old grief. Alaric had pressed it into my palm when he kissed my cheek in mock farewell, and I had taken it because he promised it would end my suffering if the Duke proved to be a different kind of monster. But the Duke was staring at me now, and his eyes were not the eyes of a savior. They were the eyes of a man who had waited fifteen years for this moment. "You swallowed something," Dorian said. It was not a question. I said nothing. The carriage lurched forward, and I gripped the velvet seat to keep from falling into him. The carriage interior was a study in controlled violence. Black leather seats, polished wood, silver fixtures that gleamed like drawn blades. Everything smelled of him—leather and cedar and something darker beneath, something that reminded me of thunderstorms. Dorian sat across from me, his long legs stretched out, his posture deceptively relaxed. But his hands rested on his thighs, and I noticed the way his fingers curled slightly, as if ready to seize something at any moment. "The vial," he said again, his voice soft. "What was in it?" "I don't know." "You don't know." He tilted his head. A strand of silver-streaked hair fell across his brow, and he did not brush it away. "You swallowed an unknown substance given to you by the man who just tried to have you executed, and you don't know what it was." "I was going to die anyway." I met his gaze. "What did it matter?" Something flickered in those whiskey eyes. Something that might have been anger. Or respect. Or both. "It mattered," he said slowly, "because you are mine now. And I do not tolerate damage to what belongs to me." I laughed. The sound was harsh and broken in the close confines of the carriage. "I am not a horse to be owned, Your Grace." "No," he agreed. "You are far more valuable. And far more dangerous." He leaned forward, and the air between us seemed to compress. I could smell him now—not just the leather and cedar, but something underneath. Something warm and alive. Something that made my pulse quicken despite the hatred burning in my chest. "You tried to kill my cousin," he said. "The Duke of Blackthorn. Your husband." "I tried to kill the man who murdered my sister." Dorian went still. It was a small thing. A pause. A breath held a fraction too long. But I saw it. I saw the way his jaw tightened, the way his fingers pressed harder into his thighs. He had not expected that. He had not known. "Your sister," he repeated. "Lena." The name scraped my throat raw. "She was fourteen. Alaric wanted her. She refused. So he took her anyway, and when she fought, he cut her throat and threw her body in the river." The carriage hit a rut, and I lurched forward. Dorian caught my arm before I could fall. His grip was iron, his palm hot even through the fabric of my ruined dress. For a moment, we were frozen, his face inches from mine. "I did not know," he said quietly. "I was told you murdered his brother in a fit of jealousy." "His brother was the one who held her down." Dorian released me. He sat back, and the space between us felt colder for the loss of his heat. He stared at me for a long moment, and I could see him rearranging pieces of a puzzle he thought he had solved. "Alaric is my cousin," he said finally. "My mother's sister's son. We grew up together. He is the reason I became a soldier, the reason I built an army, the reason I have spent fifteen years searching for the woman I was promised to." "Then you know what he is." "I know what he was." Dorian's voice dropped. "I have not seen him in eight years. Not since he took the northern provinces and declared himself Duke. Not since he stopped answering my letters and started building walls around his lands." "He is not the man you remember." "No," Dorian said. "Apparently he is not." He reached into his coat and withdrew a small leather pouch. From it, he produced a single white petal. It was dried and brittle, but it still held a faint luminescence, a soft glow that pulsed like a heartbeat. "Do you know what this is?" he asked. I shook my head. "It is a moonpetal. Very rare. Very expensive. It only grows in one place." He held it up, and the glow illuminated the sharp planes of his face. "The garden of the Blackthorn estate. The garden where Alaric's mother was buried." My blood turned to ice. "The vial you swallowed," Dorian said. "I need you to tell me exactly how it tasted. What you felt. Every detail. Because if my cousin gave you moonpetal extract, then he did not give you a poison." He leaned forward again, and this time, his eyes held something I had not seen before. Something that looked almost like fear. "He gave you a leash." The carriage came to a violent stop. I was thrown forward, and this time Dorian did not catch me. I hit the floor hard, my knees cracking against the wooden boards, my bound wrists unable to break my fall. I heard shouts outside. The ring of steel. The unmistakable sound of swords being drawn. Dorian was on his feet in an instant, a blade appearing in his hand as if from nowhere. He kicked open the carriage door and stepped out into chaos. I scrambled to the window and looked out. We were on a narrow road bordered by dense forest. The sun had begun to set, painting the sky in shades of blood and gold. Six men on horseback surrounded the carriage. They wore no colors, no insignia. But I recognized the way they sat their horses. The way they held their swords. They were Alaric's men. "The Duke sends his regards," one of them called out. "He wants his wife back." "She is not his wife," Dorian said. His voice was calm. Almost bored. "She is mine. And you have made a grave mistake." The leader laughed. "There are six of us, Ravenscroft. And you are one man." Dorian smiled. It was the most terrifying thing I had ever seen. "Count again," he said. And then the forest came alive.