Page 45 of Nocturn

A feeder lay in his arms. Different from the first time. She sat on the bed, her back to me, as he leaned over her, his face buried against her throat. Ringlets crowned her head, artfully pinned. She was no less passionate than the last feeder. Her hips twisted and writhed. Now I understood what that sensation was. I understood it better than I wanted to. She dug her fingers into his thigh, bunching the fabric of the robe.

He watched me from over her shoulder. I could not look away as he fed, as the woman’s cries sharpened.

That swell of something I refused to acknowledge gripped me. I curled my fingers into my palm, but the sting did nothing to sate the urge to grab the feeder by the hair. She ran her hand higher on his thigh, and I could not contain my gasp.

His eyebrows twitched upward, and humor invaded those eerie eyes.

That made me angrier.

He lifted from her neck. Blue blood dripped from the corner of his lips. The woman remained trembling against him.

I stiffened my jaw and lowered back to my spot beside the bed, tugging my knees to my chest. None of what was happening inside me made sense. It continued in a swirl until I was nauseated.

“Redblood,” Lord Draven’s voice cracked through my discomfort.

My limbs jerked as if he’d pulled a string. I had to speak before he became angry.

“Yes, my lord?”

I remained as still as possible.

“Prepare a bath for me.”

“Yes, my lord.” He didn’t say anything more, and I pushed up to my feet, keeping my head down as I shoved my feet into the slippers.

After translating deep into the moonlight, exhaustion had dragged me straight to sleep, and he hadn’t partaken in his almost ritualistic bathing. I could appreciate a man who liked to remain clean.

A man?

“I am happy to be of service, my lord,” the feeder’s voice grated on my ears. My steps faltered. I took the opportunity to peer at her as I disappeared into the bathing chamber.

That feeder resembled me. Her skin was a bronze shade marking her as someone from Southern Sycarious and so did her thick dark hair.

No, that was simply by chance. What was I thinking? That he had selected her especially for resembling me?

I hurried to the tub and turned the spout.

Each step of preparing the bathing chamber felt as if I bore weights. Would she enter to replace my spot aiding Lord Draven?

I began to fold the little cloth on the table to do something with my hands.

So be it.

The corner of the folded cloth was no good. I whipped it open and started again, carefully dividing it in half.

I should be glad to no longer bathe his long body, or to no longer see how his member reacted to each ministration. Or how the soft sounds he made⁠—

“Has the rag offended you in some way?”

I yelped and whirled. Lord Draven stood an arm’s distance away, that blasted smirk on his face.

“No, my lord.”

Giving the barest incline of my head, I stepped aside and fixed my gaze on the lip of the tub so I would not watch him. It cost me: I could not see the expression that accompanied his little exhale.

Droplets splashed as he settled into the steaming bathing tub.

Approaching, I took the fresh, unused bar of soap in one hand and the cloth in the other. With steady, impersonal movements, I dipped both into the edge of the water to moisten them. A few scrubs against my palm had it lathered. Stepping behind Lord Draven, I began to wash his shoulders up to the base of his scalp without touching his hair since I had washed it during his last bath.