My kingdom was a well-oiled machine.
A beautiful, gleaming engine of conquest, humming with the quiet, efficient thrum of impending world domination.
And at the heart of that engine was a catastrophic, ticking time bomb of sexual jealousy that was going to get me killed.
I ran a hand through my hair, a gesture I had perfected for moments of profound, kingly stress.
Isabelle Thorne, my First Sword, my former-hero commander, my brilliant and dangerously possessive lover, was asleep in my bed.
The moonlight, filtered through the massive crystal windows of the Spire, painted her in shades of silver and shadow.
She looked peaceful.
She looked like a goddess of war, momentarily at rest.
She also looked like the kind of woman who would castrate me with a rusty spoon if she ever found out about Chloe.
My eyes darted around the room.
My heart, which was currently not beating because I am a vampire, still managed to perform a spectacular, panicked plummet into my stomach.
