Lothaire

EPILOGUE

SOME TIME LATER . . .

“We’d snickered behind your back,” Stelian told Lothaire in a dazed tone, “amused by how such a young female was managing you.” His expression was thunderstruck.

Lothaire knew that look, wore it often himself. “But you understood nothing of which you spoke?” he said, gazing at Elizabeth across the den of their castle apartments. She sat before a hearth fire, laughing with Hag and Kosmina, the royal hound at her feet.

“Correct.” Stelian swigged a deep drink of blood mead. “How did she just get me to agree to her family’s Christmas visit?”

In a tone both rueful and brimming with pride, he said, “You never see my queen coming till it’s too late.” Just this evening, Elizabeth had somehow gotten Lothaire to agree to take Joshua—and eight of his cousins—trick-or-treating.

But really. How hard could that be?

Though it shouldn’t have surprised anyone, the mortal boy worshipped Lothaire.

I’m acquiring relatives like unspayed cat shifters.

Elizabeth caught his gaze, casting him that mind-scrambling smile of hers. Draped in the jewels he lovingly bestowed upon her, she radiated her contentment.

She’d had no trouble adjusting to this foreign way of life, taking everything in stride. With each foray out into their new realm, she’d readily picked up more of her subjects’ language and customs.

And taught them some of her own. The reserved Daci . . . adored her, found her refreshing. As predicted.

After excusing herself, Elizabeth traced to sit beside him on the settee. Their hound—which he refused to call Bo Junior—chuffed indignantly, still baffled whenever anyone traced.

As Lothaire took her hand in his, pressing a tender kiss to the back, Stelian excused himself with a wary glance at Elizabeth.

“Everyone’s getting along so much better, don’t you think?” she asked. She’d long since dreamed his memories of Dacia, and after analyzing Lothaire’s relationships with the royals, she’d set about “salvaging” them.

Now that Elizabeth was queen, some of the ice among them all was in fact thawing. After centuries of strife, they’d begun gathering around the den hearth. Still he said, “Would I admit it, if I did?”

“Lothaire-speak?” She quirked a brow. “Well, I think everything’s coming along nicely.”

Upon meeting Viktor, she’d told the general, “You’re the fierce one Lothaire bragged about! No wonder he appointed you to be head of my guard. When he’s away, he’ll trust me with no one else.” The soldier’s chest had bowed.

To Mirceo, she’d said, “You could ask Balery to see how long your wait for your Bride will be. Counting down sometimes helps.” Advice from a wise queen who’d had grueling life experiences to count down.

She’d told Trehan, “If I can live with Lothaire, then anything is possible with your Bride. Can’t you give your relationship just one more try?”

With Kosmina, she’d done little managing, admitting to Lothaire, “I don’t even know where to start. She might truly need a complete reboot. . . .” Hello, Louisiana.

Elizabeth believed that they were all “coming together as a family” or something, and that the reason he felt uncomfortable around them was that he feared he “might grow to care about them.”

He’d scoffed, ready to assure her that he loathed his family and didn’t want them near, but he hadn’t been able to utter the words.

So for now, they invaded his personal space, Dacianos overrunning them.

Despite this, he was happy once more. As he glanced at his exquisite Bride, he thought, But I guard my key jealously.

Queen Elizavetta Daciano was his Endgame, always had been.

Would Ivana the Bold have bowed down to her? Yes. But deep down, he knew it no longer mattered.

Each night, when Elizabeth drank from him, their unbreakable bond only strengthened—and with it, his mind continued to hold steady. He would never be completely sane—not a chance of that—but as long as she accepted him, he could manage.

Whenever she slept, she dreamed of his actions from the previous day’s span. If he went out on official kingly business, she would kiss him good-bye with the plea, “Don’t do anything I’m gonna regret dreaming about, Leo.”

Only two pressing tasks remained. He needed to repay Nïx, and he needed to fulfill the vow to his mother to rule the Horde.

He’d decided—with the help of a sucker punch—to assist the soothsayer’s search for Furie. Though he didn’t necessarily want Phenïx to be his boon companion once more, he didn’t like being indebted to anyone.

And when he thought about how much he loved Elizabeth and how inconceivably right it felt to have her by his side, he recognized that he was seriously—grievously—indebted to Nïx.

Now if he could just find the soothsayer to tell her; when he’d traced from Dacia to save Elizabeth, the Valkyrie had vanished.

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. . . .”