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Vivian's hand is still in the air. The glass Cyrus just held sits on the table between them, empty except for a dark red smear at the bottom.
Her brother's ring is on her finger.
Cyrus is smiling at her.
She can't move. Can't breathe. The hall is too bright, too loud, and every vampire in this room is watching her like she's dinner. Lucas's grip on her elbow is the only thing keeping her upright.
"Vivian." His voice is low, almost gentle. "Smile."
She does. She doesn't know how, but her mouth curves and her chin lifts and she looks at Cyrus like he didn't just tell her he killed her brother. Like he didn't just prove it by naming the ring on her hand.
"You have your mother's eyes," Cyrus says. He picks up his glass again, swirls the last drop of blood inside. "Eleanor was always so composed. Even at the end."
Vivian's nails dig into her palm. Lucas's fingers tighten on her arm, a warning.
"Thank you," she says. Her voice doesn't shake. That's a miracle. "I'm honored you remember her."
Cyrus tilts his head, studying her like she's a painting he's considering buying. "Oh, I remember everything about Eleanor Ashcroft. Brilliant woman. Too curious for her own good, but brilliant." He glances at Lucas. "You've chosen well, Lucas. She has her mother's spine."
Lucas doesn't answer. His face is stone.
Cyrus's smile widens. He sets the glass down, and that's when Vivian sees it.
Blood.
Not at the bottom. On the base of the glass. A thin red line, smeared into the crystal, and pressed into the smear is a shape she knows by heart.
Her family crest.
The falcon with broken wings.
She stops breathing.
Cyrus sees her staring. He doesn't look away. Doesn't move the glass. Just stands there, holding her gaze, and his smile is the kind you'd see on a wolf before it bites.
"Excuse us," Lucas says. His voice cuts through the hall like a blade. He doesn't wait for Cyrus to answer. He pulls Vivian away, his hand locked around her wrist, and she stumbles after him because her legs aren't working right.
The other vampires part for them. Whispers rise in their wake, low and hungry.
Lucas drags her through a side door, down a hallway lined with portraits of dead council members, and into a small room with no windows. He shuts the door. Locks it. Then he turns on her.
"What the hell was that?"
Vivian stares at him. Her pulse is hammering so hard she can feel it in her teeth. "You gave me my brother's ring."
"I told you to smile and nod."
"You gave me his ring, Lucas." Her voice cracks. She holds up her hand, shoves the ring in his face. "Cyrus knew. He knew whose ring this was. He knew because he was there when my brother died."
Lucas's jaw tightens. He grabs her wrist, pulls her hand down. "I know."
The room tilts.
"You know," she repeats. Her voice is flat now. Dead. "You know he killed my brother."
"Vivian—"
"And you gave me the ring anyway." She yanks her hand free, steps back. "What is this? Some kind of sick joke? You want me to wear my brother's ring while I play nice with the man who murdered him?"
"It's not a joke." Lucas moves toward her, slow, like she's a spooked animal. "It's a message."
"A message." She laughs, and it sounds wrong. Too high. "To who? Me? Cyrus?"
"To everyone." He stops in front of her, close enough she has to tilt her head back to see his face. "That ring has a history. The council knows it. Cyrus knows it. When you walked in wearing it, you told every vampire in that hall you're not just my bride. You're Eleanor Ashcroft's daughter. And you're not afraid."
She wants to hit him. She wants to scream. "I am afraid."
"I know." His voice drops. "But they don't. And that's what keeps you alive."
Her throat burns. She looks down at the ring, at the thin band of silver and the tiny engraving on the inside she didn't notice until now. Her brother's initials. T.A. Theodore Ashcroft.
She wore this ring to her own wedding.
She wore her dead brother's ring, and Cyrus saw it, and he knew, and he smiled.
"He's playing with me," she whispers.
"Yes."
"He wants me to know he did it."
"Yes."
"Why?" She looks up at Lucas, and her vision is blurry. She's not crying. She won't cry. "Why tell me? Why not just kill me?"
Lucas's expression doesn't change, but something shifts in his eyes. Something cold and tired and almost—almost—human.
"Because you're more useful alive," he says quietly. "To him. To me. To everyone in that hall."
The words land like a slap.
Vivian steps back. "I'm bait."
"You're leverage."
"Same thing."
"No." He follows her, closes the distance she just made. "Bait gets eaten. Leverage gets protected."
"By you?" She laughs again, bitter. "You're the one who put this ring on my finger, Lucas. You're the one who dragged me into this. Don't pretend you're protecting me."
He doesn't answer. Just looks at her, and for a second she thinks she sees something crack in that perfect mask he wears. But then it's gone, and he's cold again. Distant.
"You want the truth about your family?" he says. "You want to know who ordered the hit on your mother and brother?"
"I already know. It's Cyrus."
"Cyrus is a dog on a leash," Lucas says flatly. "He does what he's told. You want the leash, you stay close. You play the role. You don't crack."
Vivian's hands are shaking. She curls them into fists, feels the ring press into her palm. "How long?"
"How long what?"
"How long have you known?" Her voice breaks. "About Cyrus. About my brother. How long have you known and said nothing?"
Lucas's gaze holds hers. "Since the day I bought you."
The air goes out of her lungs.
She knew. She knew he was involved, she knew he had her family's deeds, she knew he wasn't innocent. But hearing him say it—hearing him admit he knew her brother was dead, knew who killed him, and still put that ring on her finger and called her his bride—
She slaps him.
Her palm cracks across his cheek, and the sound echoes in the tiny room. Lucas doesn't move. Doesn't even flinch. Just stands there, a red mark blooming on his perfect pale skin, and looks at her like he expected it.
Like he deserved it.
"I hate you," she whispers.
"I know," he says.
And then he reaches out, slow and careful, and takes her hand. The one with the ring. He holds it between both of his, and his skin is cold, so cold it burns.
"Trust none of them," he says quietly. "Not Cyrus. Not Eliza. Not the council. Not even me."
Vivian tries to pull away. He doesn't let her.
"You hear me, Vivian?" His grip tightens. "None of them."
She nods. She doesn't know what else to do.
Lucas releases her hand. Steps back. Straightens his jacket. When he looks at her again, the mask is back in place, and he's the vampire lord again. Cold. Untouchable.
"We're going back out there," he says. "You're going to smile. You're going to drink whatever they give you. And you're going to let Cyrus think he's won."
Vivian's chest is tight. Her throat aches. "And then?"
"Then we find out who's holding his leash."
He unlocks the door. The sound is too loud.
Vivian follows him back into the hall. The vampires are still there, still watching, still waiting. Cyrus is at the center of the room now, holding court, laughing at something another elder said.
His glass is gone.
Vivian scans the table. The glass with the blood smear, the one with her family crest—it's not there.
She looks at Cyrus. He's already looking at her.
He raises his new glass. Toasts her from across the room.
And smiles.