Alistair Cain stood before the velvet-draped threshold of his private chamber, the dying candlelight gilding the edges of his silhouette.
Beyond the door, the servants had already deposited tonight's offering—another trembling young virgin woman delivered to him like tribute to an ancient god.
A symbol of obedience. A reminder of his power. A temporary balm for a hunger that had long since lost its sweetness.
He inhaled slowly, tasting the faint scent drifting through the crack in the door: rosewater, fear, and something delicate, something unspoiled.
Virgin blood always held that curious sharpness, like winter wind touching warm skin.
Her name…
What was her name again?
A low exhale escaped him, tinged with irritation at his own inability—or unwillingness—to recall.
