Duncan hated every moment of his capture; from missing his friends and even his damned butler to the gut-wrenching, guilt-inducing horror of being forced to feed, to the travel itself that was awkward and uncomfortable, to the desperate, horrible fear that he was going to die a final death, there was nothing he could do about it, and he would do so without saying those things that had become so vitally important. He did not even dare write a letter and beg a last favor that it be delivered.
“But mostly,” he muttered to himself, setting his shoulders and pushing hard against the stone reliquary lid, “I hate sleeping in this God-forsaken bloody cold stone casket.” He shoved the stone up and away—harder than even if should be, given that he had a vampire’s strength, but the stone was heavy a
