Page 43 of Nocturn

Craning my head to look at him on his leather-bound seat pinched the back of my neck.

“Why?” I could not help the frustration underlying my snapped word.

“You begin to close your eyes that way before you start bleeding.”

He still had not looked up from the oversized journal braced on one arm. His quill’s tip scratched across parchment as I worked on my translations. Upon lifting my head, a pulsation started up at my temple. I winced, rubbing the middle of my forehead. The only spot that offered a modicum of relief.

“Thank you,” I breathed, grateful. When it reached the point of a nosebleed, the headache was too far gone for it to stop. Only sleeping helped soothe the ache.

“I am centuries old, mortal. My lack of care for human life does not equate to stupidity. For now, I need you.” He smiled, displaying his sharp, intimidating fangs.

Those words in his voice caused a foreign sensation to bloom in my belly.

“Right,” I mumbled, my cheeks flushing. “Simply a lack of compassion.”

He stilled, making me hold my breath.

I felt so incredibly attuned to him. Analyzing his reactions was part of my survival.

His lips twitched again. I let out a breath and quickly straightened, tugging the front of my corset up to cover my bosom. The haphazardly tied sashes had loosened at my back so I couldn’t cease wiggling.

“Stand.” He sighed, finished whatever he scrawled across the journal, and set the quill inside before slamming it closed.

The order had me on my feet.

I peeked up at the slim glass pane that allowed some light from the crescent moon in. Usually, we did not stop until it was on its travel down.

Leather creaked as he swiveled. His oversized hand spanned my waist, tugging me toward him. His command swallowed my breath, “Stop moving around.” He tugged on the sash at my back. He tightened it with careful yanks, each one cinching the ribbing.

The stern yet gentle tugs of the sashes caused that tentative warmth blooming in my belly to throb.

It was a rather gentle, intimate thing and I did not know what to do with that.

A knot of discomfort swelled in my throat.

“My lord, may I ask a question?”

“Another?” he drawled, tightening the next bit. “Ask your undoubtedly insightful question.”

His breath caressed my ear, making my loose hair tickle across my Sigil.

“What is Volcan?”

The tied sash loosened. I anticipated fury or anger like the first time I had spoken this question. Instead, he re-tightened the last sash until it was properly secured and my breasts no longer threatened to spill.

“Not what—who,” he corrected, voice stiff.

A who.

I eased back to the ground, no longer hindered by the corset. Leather creaked as he leaned back.

“Is he a Warlord?” The given names of Warlords were not widely known—I had no way to place him.

“Not any longer.” His response came tighter, and asking another was pushing his patience, but I had to know. The way Lord Draven’s expression stiffened was almost as if . . . pained?

“What happened to him?”

“Filthy redbloods happened to him.” He abruptly stood. “Keep reading until I return,” he said in that silky tone that marked irritation.