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“Then why were you crying?”
“Because I took someone you love away from you. I hurt you… and I will regret that for the rest of my life.”
Alaric’s brows furrow, then his features soften. Hope doesn’t have time to settle. His lip curls. Alaric’s lips part as if he will condemn me. Then he dips his head, pressing his mouth to the crook of my neck. His hands hold me against him by my waist.
Seconds pass with us like this, not moving.
Something is wrong.
I cautiously lift my hands and push against his shoulders until I can look him in the eye. Alaric’s face is pale, and his pupils have dilated, nearly swallowing up his midnight irises. Black lines pulse up both sides of his neck, seeping up toward his eyes.
“What’s happening?” I hold him firmer and bring him to eye level. “Tell me how to help.”
He blinks. His confusion a momentary distraction from the pain. Again, he opens his mouth as if to speak, but the strain transforms it into a pain filled gasp. His gaze locks onto my neck, telling me what I need to know.
“You need to feed.”
I’m unsure how much of his expression is agony from the curse or hating that I am his only option. If I leave it to him, who knows how long he will remain locked in indecision.
He doesn’t fight me as I guide his mouth to the crook of my neck. Shallow bursts of warm breath wash over my skin. When he finally gives in, fangs piercing, he is careful to avoid causing me pain.
Each swallow is a light tug, both physical and on the bond that connects us. It ignites my blood, dulling all thoughts other than him. His touch. His mouth. I cling to him. I don’t know if it’s real or imagined, but I can sense the slightest echo of his heartbeat.
His lips are on mine as he grabs my upper thighs and lifts me, pinning me to the wall with his hips. There’s no trace of blood on his tongue as he claims my mouth. There is only him and desire demanding to be satiated.
I need him. All of him. His words, his laugh, his heart. The bond drives us both into a frenzied desperation, longing to be whole.
The press of fangs scrapes my bottom lip, drawing the smallest drops of blood. I moan against him as he grinds his arousal against me.
He pulls back, leaving me gasping, head reeling. Our hands are on each other, poised to remove each other’s clothes in any way we can. But that small distance is enough to form a fissure in the spell.
“Little nightmare…” His eyes slide down, stopping in the space between us. “What have you done?”
My gaze follows his to the undulating shadows that rise off him, stretching out toward me.
I inhale in a sharp breath and release my grip on our bond. The swirling wisps vanish like a puff of smoke in a breeze.
Alaric looks at me with a mix of horror and fear. On some level, he knows, but because of the curse, he doesn’t understand. I want to tell him. He needs… no, he deserves to know.
Before I can find my voice, he lowers me to my feet and takes several steps back. I’m not even sure he realizes the black veins and his pain have faded. I reach for him. Alaric only shakes his head, then turns and walks away.
I remain rooted to the spot for several minutes. Shivering from the loss of his warmth. From the emotions that his touch stirs in me.
Large fluffy snowflakes drift lazily down from the endless gray above in the time we lost ourselves in the spell caused by a mix of the curse and our bond.
Keeping any part of the truth from him is no longer an option. I don’t know when or how I will tell him, but I have to.
I can’t imagine what it would be like to be in his place. How devastating to find out everything you think is true is actually a lie, to know the horrible things someone you trust has done to you, to find out that you are irrevocably tied to the one you thought you should hate.
I slide down the stone wall and crouch with my face buried in my hands, and cry for him. When I run out of tears, I straighten and compose myself before going back inside. I might not be able to share everything with my friends, but in this, I can enlist their help.
No one pays any attention to me as I slip through the kitchen. Just as I reach the doorway, a young woman carrying a tray turns into me. There isn’t enough time or space to move out of the way. Hot tea sloshes from the pot, and a teacup topples to the ground, shattering.
She falls to her knees and franticly gathers the broken porcelain shards. Breaking a dish isn’t uncommon for a kitchen this size. She appears to be about my age, and from the terrified look on her face, I think she must be new.
I help her quickly clean up the mess, feeling terrible for not watching where I was going. “I’m sorry,” I say. “Blame me, if anyone gets—”
Her hand grips my wrist, and I meet her large, honey-colored gaze. “Lady Valmont?” she asks, then glances around before leaning in, whispering a harsh warning. “You must get ready.”
