Page 29 of The Vampire’s Ballerina

She is everything. She is the end and the beginning. She makes this eternal existence bearable—no—more than bearable. She makes me feel alive again.

Imogen pulls away. Her hands tremble against my face, a shaky breath leaving her as she blinks rapidly under my intense, concerned stare.

“I missed you,” she whispers, but her eyes don’t meet my gaze.

“I saw you not even an hour ago,” I tease.

Her lips lift—barely—but her smile doesn’t light up her eyes like it usually does. I clasp her hands in mine, lowering them from my cheeks, and I realize it’s not just her hands that quiver, but her entire body.

“You’re shaking, dolcezza.” My hand cups her nape, and my eyes search her face.

“I’m nervous,” she admits.

I shake my head and pull her closer, pressing my lips against her forehead. “They will love you. Tu sei perfetto.”

“No one is perfect,” she says.

“You are close to it,” I say. “You have received training others can’t dream of, can’t even fathom. They will see in you what I have always seen in you.”

She swallows and nods, but I can still sense her hesitance, her nerves. That must have been what I felt while in the balcony. It was her anxiety, sent to me through our connection, not mine.

I slide my hand around her neck, my thumb brushing her jaw as I lean over her, our mouths a breath apart. Her pulse jumps in her throat, her pupils dilating and eyes flashing red, and my cock twitches in my pants.

“I know what will help you.” My words tickle her lips, and my hand pins her in place.

That look in her eyes—needy and dark—deepens at my words, at the promise underneath them. I tilt her head up more and lower myself until I’m just about to kiss her, then I brush my lips along her jaw and neck, nipping at the soft spot where her heart beats a lazy rhythm.

A low noise sounds in her throat, soft and almost inaudible, but it’s all I hear. My tongue flicks out over the nearly invisible puncture scars on her neck, and her hand flies to the back of my neck, clutching and clinging to me as her thighs clench above her shaking knees.

I chuckle and scrape my teeth over her skin, but I pull back even though my fangs ache to pierce her flesh. “Later,” I say, my voice thick with the same need reflected in her eyes and body. “I will drink from you later—tonight, when we celebrate—but right now, you need to drink from me.”

I punch the lock closed behind me without looking and zip us across the room so she sits on the makeup counter, my hips between her gorgeous thighs. Her gown splits apart, revealing her bare lower half, and I bite back a groan—bite back the instinct to tear my clothes off so I can fuck her here and now. But this moment isn’t about me. It’s about her and her needs, and she needs blood to settle her frayed nerves. My blood.

She has nothing to worry about, but my blood will reassure her. I’ll funnel my surety into her with each gulp she takes, so she’ll know I meant what I said.

I tug her closer by her hips, and her back arches. My fingers grip the swell of her ass, her skin delicious beneath my touch. Imogen makes quick work of untying my tie and unbuttoning my shirt until the spot on my neck that she wants to bite into is unveiled. I tense, jaw clenched, as she leans in close.

In all my centuries as a vampire, I’d always been the one feeding, never the food. Until Imogen came along. Until she stormed into my bedroom at my cabin and said nothing else mattered if it meant I’d end up alone. That she wanted to spend eternity at my side, and she wanted that eternity to start at that exact moment—she didn’t want to wait.

As soon as her lips brush over my neck, over the marks left by her fangs from previous feedings and the completion of our bond, my body relaxes even as my grip on her tightens.

She’s not close enough—she’s never close enough.

Her fingers curl into the fabric of my shirt, and I arch my neck further, giving her more, giving her all of me.

Normally she’d take her time, teasing me and flaunting her momentary control, but the show will start soon, and she still needs to get into costume. Imogen inhales a breath of my scent, pressing her breasts into my chest so the tops peek out over her robe, and then her teeth pierce my flesh.

The brief jolt of pain is immediately replaced by a rush of warmth and ecstasy—and life. My hips rock against her, cock thickening and aching for release. I wind my arm around her waist so she’s trapped against me, and she drinks. Long, deep pulls of my blood. And as she does, I pour more of myself into her. I pour my love, my determination, and my confidence in her into my blood, so it flows through her as she feeds from me.

This sharing of myself with another is more intimate than any sexual act. I’m not just sharing my body with her, but giving her a piece of myself—my heart, my soul—just as I did when I marked and changed her.

She relaxes her grip and takes one last swallow. Then she pulls back, swiping her tongue over the bite before kissing it. I sway with her in my arms, cherishing this moment of quiet. We stare at each other, and I lift the illusion on my eyes, so our gazes match—red meeting red.

Nyx, she is beautiful. Over a century has passed, and I still can’t get used to seeing her like this. I don’t think I ever will. And the love for me in her eyes—it’s unrelenting and infallible.

“Ti amo piccola ballerina,” I say, kissing her. “I will love you for all of my endless days.”

“I love you too, Pietro.”