Zyren nodded his head with casual authority, his fingers making a lazy flick as he gestured for the servants to begin serving the food.
It was at that precise moment that Aria summoned every ounce of control she possessed to stop her body from betraying her—because if her heart pounded any harder, it might very well give her away.
The sensation in her chest was erratic, like a caged animal crashing against her ribs, desperate to escape.
She focused her gaze, sharp and unwavering, on the servant approaching her side to dish out her food, her lips parting just slightly to instruct him in a calm, measured voice. But that wasn’t where her true attention lay.
Her mind, her breath, her very being, was anchored to the servant who was stepping forward with a gold-rimmed jug—Zyren’s wine.
The vial was already concealed in her palm, its cold glass pressing against her skin like a silent accomplice. All she had to do was empty it into the goblet. Just one smooth pour, and her nightmare would end.
But the room was full—bursting with vampires. Any single one of them might catch the smallest flicker of movement. A wrong angle. A glimpse of hesitation. Even the subtlest tremble could cost her everything.
Outwardly, she appeared calm, perhaps even elegant. Her breathing was slow, her face passive, and her limbs relaxed—but in her mind, chaos reigned. She was a breath away from unraveling, from screaming. From running.
Then the servant moved closer.
From the corner of her eye, she saw his motion. That was all she needed. With barely a movement, Aria turned and addressed her own attendant. Her voice was light, composed.
"You’re dismissed," she said.
The girl obeyed without question, stepping aside.
Aria then pivoted her body slightly, turning to the male servant just as he prepared to pour Zyren’s wine.
"Allow me," Aria said smoothly, holding out her hand, her eyes trained on him.
The red-eyed servant hesitated. His gaze flicked toward Zyren in silent inquiry, and Aria’s breath locked in her throat.
Zyren didn’t speak. He merely watched them both with an unreadable expression, his crimson eyes unreadable. She was sure, painfully sure, that he would say no.
But then he gave a single nod.
That was all. One simple nod.
Aria didn’t give herself time to celebrate. She reached forward, taking the golden jug from the servant’s hands as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Then, in one seamless movement, she leaned her entire upper body over the table, deliberately blocking the view of the goblet with her back and shoulders.
There was no room for fear anymore.
She slid the vial from her pocket with a swift, practiced motion, tilting it so that its contents emptied into the cup in sync with the wine she poured from the jug. Her hand never shook. Her face never twitched. She had mastered the art of stillness.
’Once he drinks... they’ll all know it was me,’ Aria thought grimly, pressing her lips together. ’But I don’t care. Let them know. Let them kill me. As long as he dies first.’
With the cup full and the vial empty, she slipped the tiny glass container back into her pocket with fluid precision. She took a step back and returned the jug to its place, her motions graceful and unhurried, like someone born to play hostess.
It was only then, as she caught sight of the rich burgundy liquid in the goblet, that the thought struck her.
She hadn’t even considered it. Of course Zyren wouldn’t drink blood from a cup. Why would he, when he could take it fresh, straight from a living vein?
Her hand was just pulling away when she felt a sudden tug at her waist.
She gasped softly as Zyren’s hand seized her by the waistband of her gown and dragged her backward, pulling her effortlessly until she landed—once more—on his lap. Right where she’d been sitting moments before.
"Makes me wonder what I’ve done to deserve this special treatment," he murmured, his voice low and smooth, brushing against her ear like silk.
There was a dangerous gleam in his eye, one of delighted curiosity.
Aria offered him a smile, tight at the corners, her nerves raw just beneath the surface. There was a trace of strain in her expression, a flicker of tension in her jaw, but she forced it all down.
She turned her gaze to her plate with careful attention, thankful to see a familiar and simple dish—mashed potatoes and roasted fish. A blessing in disguise. Something to ground her. She picked up her fork and began eating, one bite at a time, trying to silence the thunder in her chest.
Around the long table, the others had begun to eat too. Nobles, lords, and their slaves—everyone settled into their places, voices murmuring low in conversation. As per Zyren’s decree, meals were eaten as a collective. A family. A twisted mockery of unity.
But Aria only watched one thing: Zyren’s hand.
He hadn’t touched the wine.
’Why isn’t he drinking?’ she thought, eyes darting once to the untouched goblet on the table.
Her stomach coiled tighter with each passing second. Her fork hovered above her food, trembling ever so slightly.
’Did he see me? Does he know?’ Panic churned beneath her ribs, a storm she could no longer hold back. She tried to breathe, but every inhale was too shallow. Her fingers clenched around the utensil so tightly that it was painful.
Then Zyren spoke again.
"I assumed you would still be pissed at me," he said, his tone as relaxed as if they were discussing the weather. "This... is quite unexpected."
His words were laced with a dry amusement that cut through her like a blade. Aria’s back stiffened. She nodded, stiffly, as if it were nothing, her eyes fixed on her plate.
She stabbed her fork into the food with more force than necessary, the metal scraping harshly against the ceramic.
Still, he didn’t touch the cup.
Her pulse throbbed beneath her skin, every muscle in her body tight with dread.
’He knows. He absolutely knows. That’s why he won’t drink it,’ her thoughts spiraled, panic giving way to rage. ’He’s playing with me. Watching me squirm!’
Refusing to break, Aria reached for her own cup and took a slow sip, her jaw set. Her fingers clenched harder around the fork, white-knuckled, ready—willing—to drive it into his heart if that’s what it took.
Her appetite was gone. She barely tasted the food. Every part of her body was coiled for a fight, prepared to end it with blood.
Then, unexpectedly, Zyren leaned in again, his lips brushing the shell of her ear.
"What are you scared of?" he whispered.
The question was too precise. Too knowing. He had heard her heart. Heard it galloping like a frightened animal. The amusement in his voice made her blood boil.
She was ready. She could feel it. Just one motion. One movement of her wrist and—
Right before her eyes, Zyren’s hand reached forward—calmly, casually—and curled around the goblet.
Aria’s heart lurched violently. Her mouth went dry.
He raised the cup. His gaze locked onto hers.
He tilted the goblet to his lips and emptied it in one long swallow, never once looking away.
For a moment, time seemed to freeze.
Aria stared at him, unblinking, her breath caught in her throat. This was it. The moment she’d longed for. The moment she’d imagined again and again.
But instead of relief... unease crashed over her like a tidal wave.
He set the goblet back on the table with exaggerated care, the motion calm and deliberate. His smile widened, too serene, too self-assured.
"The wine tastes much better than yesterday," he said lightly.
No one else heard it. No one noticed.
She heard it like a death knell.
She heard the sound of her own heart spasming in her chest.
She sat stiffly on his lap, her spine rigid, fingers clenched so tightly that her joints ached. Her breath came too fast. Her blood was ice.
There was no longer any doubt.