Spare Me Great Lord Novels & Stories

I'd gone to his study to surprise him, only to find him bent over the design schematics for our rings. The original "Amor Aeternus" was crossed out. Replaced by that new line of Latin: Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. My sin, my greatest sin. Five years. The guilt had never left him. Her shadow still loomed over everything between us. "Isabella?" the priest prompted gently. I lifted my head and looked out at the crowd. My father, Don Rossi, his eyes filled with expectation. The Moretti council, sitting ramrod straight, waiting for the answer that would end a decades-long war between our two families.

"Who's asking?" "My name is Emilio Agosti." I nearly dropped the phone. "You're supposed to be in a coma." "That's what my family wanted everyone to believe. Easier to control an empire when people think the heir is incapacitated." His voice was dry, intelligent, nothing like the vegetable I'd been sold. "I've been very awake for three years. I just couldn't move until recently. A rather nasty disorder called Guillain-Barré. Paralysis that looks like death."

"Dorian! Help!" A scream shattered the quiet dawn. Dorian and I had just stepped out of the castle, heading for the tower. Heaven's Needle. The desperate cry made Dorian freeze. "Cordelia?" He whipped around. A disheveled young vampire stumbled toward us. It was Myra, Cordelia's blood servant. "Your Highness! It’s bad! Lady Cordelia is losing it! Her bloodlust is out of control!" Myra cried. "She knows the Oath can't replace the Bond. She... she just snapped!"

I felt exposed under his gaze, yet strangely powerful. Damon Torres didn’t look away. He held my eyes across the crowded terrace as he slowly raised his glass in a private toast, the corner of his mouth curving into a knowing, devastating smile. The golden Mediterranean sunset painted sharp shadows across his strong features, highlighting the silver threading through his dark hair and the confident set of his broad shoulders. He was older than Liam by at least fifteen years — early forties, I guessed — but carried himself with the kind of effortless authority that made every man around him seem like a boy.