Lothaire (67 page)

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. . . .”

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