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Collecting the barbed thimble, I cleansed it with tincture before unraveling a portion of her hand. “There will be some pain,” I warned.

“I’ll manage.”

I slipped the thimble on my finger and paused half an inch above her skin. “Do I have your consent to take your blood?”

“Just do it, Yves.”

“I need a yes.”

She blew out a breath. “Yes. You have my consent.”

Pressing the barb into the meat of her palm, I quickly flipped her hand over and held it over the cup. Her blood ran dark into the old pewter, and the scent of it rose through the room. Clove. Iron. The air before a lightning strike.

Darkness crept into my eyes, and my fangs began to lengthen. I wanted to feed. To give her the ecstasy that came from my bite. To hear her whimpers as her pleasure released in long, slow pulses.

Yves. Yves. Oh, Yves, she’d say as I pulled mouthfuls of her into me. She’d break another nail clawing at my skin, just to have something solid to hold onto as she spun out into oblivion.

“Your eyes,” she observed. “Are you…?”

Losing my mind? Yes.

I began repeating the parts of a ship to keep myself present.

Forestay. Mainstay. Mizzenstay.

“This happens sometimes.”

Shrouds. Backstays. Ratlines.

“When I’m tempted.”

I could not be sucked into this fantasy. I would not.

When the cup held enough to tide me over, I wrapped her hand back in the towel. “Apply pressure to that,” I instructed her.

Before her blood ran cold, I took the cup and drank. She watched me as I indulged, clearly looking for signs that she was not to my liking.

“Well?” Cora’s chin was up. Her heart was thundering. “Still spicy?”

I finished the last of her and craved more. Had there been any inclination that she was interested in intimacy, I would’ve thrown the cup aside and bit her. That was how spicy she was. That was how tempted I was.

But she did not. The handprint on my cheek was evidence enough. And I was content to experience this torture alone.

“Yes,” I finally said. “Still spicy.”

Cora sat very still, cradling her hand. “How often will we do this?”

“Every three nights.”

Her pulse flared, then she rose as if to leave. “Well, I should get going.”

“I have a salve. And a bandage,” I told her.

“I have my own salve,” she shot back. Cora made for the door, and I followed after her, worried I’d done something wrong.

“Cora, wait.” She paused with her hand on the latch. There was so much I wanted to say. To thank her. To talk about The Devouring. To let her yell at me. It didn’t matter. But there was no other excuse I could come up with to keep her here.

The only thing left was the truth.