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She caught herself licking the lingering taste from her lips before horror settled over her.
Not bloodwine.
Blood.
Her gaze drifted toward the crystal goblet waiting beside the tray. Crimson caught the morning light until it seemed to pulse within the glass. Elarian stared long at the bloodwine, unable to stop thinking about the look on Lucan’s face as he slipped her fingers between his lips. As his fangs pierced her skin, his lips pressed close against her quivering flesh.
I wonder what he tasted.
That was her first thought.
Not revulsion. Not hatred that she had been forced to kill for the vile creature.
Curiosity.
The warmth. The sweetness. The fucking sin of having that which Melistra deemed most blasphemous above all.
Gods, Elarian needed it.
Lifting the goblet slowly, she studied the drink as though it might reveal the truth if she stared long enough. Crimson sunlight spilling through the eastern windows caught the bloodwine until it glowed like polished rubies, impossibly beautiful against the black silks surrounding Lucan's bed.
She didn’t remember wrapping her fingers around the delicate crystal stem; only the relief that followed as the crimson drink touched her lips and washed away the thirst.
The first swallow spread through her like liquid fire. Warmth bloomed beneath her ribs, unfurling through every aching muscle until the gnawing emptiness inside her quieted. Elarian inhaled deeply. Closing her eyes, she noticed the acrid aftertaste of the bloodwine did not come—merely the cooling embrace of the sweet drink. She could finally breathe without feeling as though something wretched inside her was clawing desperately toward the surface.
A soft sigh escaped her before she could stop it.
Goddess of mine, what have I done?
Relief.
She had found relief in blood.
The crystal nearly slipped from her grasp as her entire body began to shake. Blackness closed in around her. That festering, insidious voice inside she had tried to kill her entire life reared its ugly head. You came from rot, it thundered. Her skin burned as the words branded themselves across her tainted form. An unholy thing. A shameful, foul affront to the very god you now defile again!
Elarian tried to breathe, but her throat felt sealed shut, tongue thick in her mouth as she uselessly panted. Vision tunneling, she lurched forward.
Rotted from before you even took your first breath!
“N-no,” Elarian gasped. Something soft embraced her.
Even he sees it.
They’ve always seen it.
Why do you bleed, elf? Why do you burn unless you are an ungodly abomination?
“Elarian.”
As if plucked from the darkness by Melistra herself, the voice faded, and Lucan’s chambers returned.
“Perhaps that is enough bloodwine for now.” Lucan’s pallid hand streaked with shadows came into view, plucking the crystal goblet from her trembling hands before disappearing again. “You are an elf, after all.”
Elarian shifted to the source of Lucan’s voice. He stood next to her. Clothed in courtly attire, his black jacket embroidered with silver and pale lilac threads caught in the morning light as he moved. His crimson gaze swept across the room only once before settling back on her. An infuriatingly concerned look creased his brow.
“I doubt bloodwine causes ghosts to return.”
She lowered her gaze as she spoke, unsure why she felt compelled to share such a vulnerability with the monster who sought to unravel her world. Even that word—monster—began to feel too shallow. Monstrous, yes, but a monster?
