The fire started in his spine. Lian had known pain in three centuries — torture, battle wounds, the slow agony of starvation — but this was different.
This was consumption, a flame eating him from the inside out, turning his immortal flesh to ash while he still breathed.
He lay in his chambers, stripped to the waist, his silk shirt bindings soaked through with sweat that shouldn’t exist. Vampires didn’t sweat. Didn’t overheat or feel their own blood boiling in their veins.
The curse had found new fuel, and it was devouring him.
“My lord,” Malachi’s voice came through the door, tight with worry. “She’s here.”
“Send her in,” Lian gasped, the words scraping his throat like broken glass.
The door opened and Soren stepped inside, the fire in his veins roared higher. She wore a gown this
