Novels by Cyndi Vale

Natalie's POV My hands would not stop shaking.Even here, tucked away in the deepest corner of the lower pantry surrounded by dusty sacks of barley and hanging racks of cured meat, I could still feel the phantom weight of heavy iron crushing my chest. I could still feel the lethal, suffocating heat of Adrian's body pressed against mine, and the razor-sharp point of his fang resting right against my jugular.Why does your blood smell like sunfire, little maid?His voice echoed inside my skull, rough and dark as dragged iron. My skin still burned where his breath had touched me."You're late, Natalie."The cold, flat voice sliced through the cellar dampness.I flinched, spinning around so fast my apron snagged on a wooden grain cask.Sister Celine stepped out from the deep shadows beside the wine cellar archway. She wore the plain, stain-spattered tunic of a kitchen servant, a stained linen cap hiding her silver-threaded hair. In her right hand, she held a dull paring knife, methodica

Adrian's POV "Pull harder," I commanded, my voice a low, grated rumble that echoed off the damp stone walls of the ante-chamber. "Or do you intend for my breastplate to split when I stand before the High Council?"Behind me, the little maid was breathing too fast.I didn't need to turn around to know she was terrified. I could hear the frantic, pathetic flutter of her human heart rattling against her ribs like a trapped bird. I could hear the strain in her thin muscles, the scrape of waxed leather through iron eyelets, and the brutal bite of friction against her knuckles."If I pull any harder, my Lord, the leather will snap," Natalie said, her voice barely higher than a whisper.She wasn't looking at my face. She never looked at my face if she could help it. Her eyes were glued to my bare spine, terrified to make contact."Then let it snap," I retorted coldly. "And I will have the armorer flogged for providing rotten hide. Pull."A faint boot-scrape sounded behind me as she braced h

​Natalie’s POV ​Three in the morning. The witching hour, when even the Bloodguards on the upper battlements grew heavy-lidded and slow.​I moved like smoke through the sub-basement corridors beneath Aethelgard Castle. The damp air tasted of rot, ancient earth, and cold stone. Every breath I took had to be measured, silent, and shallow. If a single shadow shifted out of turn, the vampire sentries patrolling the perimeter would rip my throat out before I could draw my blade.​My skin still prickled where Adrian had touched me earlier in his bedchamber.​I leaned my back against the wet granite wall, waiting for the heavy footsteps of an iron-clad guard to fade down the hall. In the dark, my mind involuntarily dragged me back to the look in the Blood Sovereign’s eyes when he had cornered me near his bed.​“Your heart isn't beating fast enough,” his deep, raspy voice echoed in my memory, so clear it made my pulse spike despite myself. “A nervous maid’s pulse races. Yours is as steady as

​Adrian's POV​Dawn leaked through the arched windows of my bedchamber, painting the black marble floor in streaks of pale gray.​Natalie stood near the foot of my massive canopy bed, holding a silver tray with fresh linen and a basin of warm water. She kept her chin lowered, her body locked in that masterclass of fake human submissiveness.​She thought I didn't know about the golden blade currently tucked beneath her maid’s apron.​I stood in the shadow of the velvet heavy curtains, barely three feet behind her. My dark cloak was half-unbuttoned, and my pulse hammered so violently it rattled my ribs.​I shouldn't have been this close. I was the Blood Sovereign, a warlord who had slaughtered armies without blinking. Yet here I was, standing in the dark, driven half-mad by the sheer physical presence of my own assassin.​She shifted slightly to set the basin down.​The motion stirred the air between us.​Her scent exploded into my nostrils—an overwhelming burst of sun-warmed jasmine, c

​Adrian’s POV​"Natalie..."​Her name broke from my chest in a low, ragged rasp that sounded entirely un-kingly.​I pressed the soft silk of her discarded lace chemise to my mouth, inhaling deeply. Lavender. Cold rain. And beneath it all, that sharp, intoxicating heat that was entirely her own—a scent that had been quietly unraveling my sanity for three months.​My hand tightened around the delicate fabric, pulling it taut across my lap as a shudder tore through my body. The dark, soundless sanctuary of my private quarters offered no defense against the image of her. Her downcast hazel eyes. The delicate curve of her throat when she poured my morning tea. The tiny, maddening pulse beating rapidly right beneath her collarbone whenever I stepped too close.​I dragged the silk across my jaw, my fangs aching, extending against my lower lip until the sharp tip nearly pierced my skin. The hunger clawing inside me wasn't just for blood—It was for her. Every inch of her.​I wrapped my hand ar