Tristan Ravenswood found himself a prisoner of the most treacherous kind. His heart thundered against his ribcage as Gwendolyn's eyes met his. For the briefest moment, he thought he detected a flicker of recognition, of shock even, in her fathomless gaze. But just as quickly, her expression shifted into an inscrutable mask, betraying nothing of their intimate history.
"Sister dear, allow me to present our...esteemed guest," Zythrax began, his tone a mocking parody of gracious hospitality. He gestured a clawed hand towards the bound captive with an air of perverse showmanship. "This mangy wretch is Tristan of the Ravenswood line—a pitiful remnant clinging to the dying embers of a once-formidable mystical legacy."
Gwendolyn arched one finely sculpted brow as she turned her smoldering regar
