My Blood Is Yours (The Summoning #1)

2. Elowen

ELOWEN

TERRENEA | A FEW DAYS LATER

T he Lovers, Ace of Pentacles, Wheel of Fortune, and Knight of Cups. Essentially, Lady Magda’s reading had foretold love, wealth, and prosperity. I heave a sigh, trying to shove away the doubt and anxiety weaselling its way into my mind. As they always do. I seem to go through this never-ending cycle of knowing: when I wake up, I can still feel his touch. His breath upon my neck. His claws digging gently into my flesh. I can hear the echo of his words and feel every ounce of love that radiates from him; that my dreams, or the male starring in them, are not merely the stuff of fantasy. But when the harsh reality of this world, and his obvious and painful absence settle in… doubt trickles through the cracks.

It’s been a few days since I’ve dreamt of him now, and I feel as though my heart and soul are beginning to wilt like a plucked flower.

And it’s then that the fear that I have inherited my mother’s condition becomes a crushing weight upon my chest, combined with the guilt that I have no other word to describe it. She was a gentle soul tortured by unseen worlds. Lunacy, as I’d often heard others refer to it as. But it was a word that never sat right with me. Not that condition was much better.

The pitter-patter of rain tickles the single-pane windows of Forsythe’s study as I enter with a silver tray of tea. Dr. Cedric Forsythe is a highly esteemed professor at the Eldridge Conservatory of Medicine. A handsome and usually soft-spoken man—if not a little mad. Pouring over mountains of documents and scribbled notes, he hardly notices my presence, tugging at his wild, thick dark hair, streaked with shocks of silver that match his moustache and goatee.

My eyes steal a glance at the handwritten document he’s hunched over and catch on a sketch of what appears to be a wolf-man standing on his hind legs. Harshly scribbled notes lie beneath and I try to sneak as much information as I can before he reprimands me.

The Lykanthropic Factor

… a cryptic genetic sequence embedded within the host’s chromosomal structure… not solely dependent on direct inheritance from both progenitors but is influenced by a broader interplay of genetic predisposition and external variables…

… Possesses a stochastic nature of its expression: a singular afflicted ancestor may transmit the factor across generations without predictable patterns, lying dormant for decades before reemerging… May be subject to epigenetic regulation… triggering phenotypic transformation…

Miraculously, he still hasn’t noticed me as I hover and try to decipher a whole load of other information that rises beyond my limited scientific comprehension—desperately wishing that, for once, I would find something that spoke of a daemon-like being. I never do.

“My lord,” I murmur quietly so as not to startle him. He doesn’t look up from his work as a hand slides to the tray to lift a cup of tea to his lips, blowing gently at the curling steam before imbibing. Again, I’m desperate to feel the solid touch of a man to help me feel not so alone. Or not so deranged, as anyone other than Magda would think if I confessed the nature of my reoccurring dreams.

Finally, it is apparent that I’ve lingered too long because his gaze lifts to mine, brows furrowing. “Is there something else, Elowen?”

My throat works on a rough swallow, heart pounding beneath his penetrative gaze. I open my mouth to speak as crimson blossoms on my cheeks. I must be ovulating, because my body feels even more demanding than usual. His nostrils flare slightly as his brown eyes seem to darken. “You require my touch again? Already?”

I manage a timid nod. “Yes, please.”

He quirks a brow. “‘Yes, please, ‘what?”

“Yes, please, master.”

His lips purse. “I will require something of yours in return. A sample of your blood.”

My lips part as arousal blooms further. I’m not certain why the idea thrills me. It shouldn’t, but for some reason, the thought of him taking such an integral part of me—for whatever reason—makes me slick between my thighs. Forsythe is the only male I’ve ever been intimate with.

In this day and age, I am little more than a thirty-year-old spinster and servant. I was a virgin until Forsythe hired me, and as the years passed and it became clear that I would not marry, I chose to seek out pleasure for myself for once.

“Gladly, my lord. Take whatever you desire.”

Forsythe stands, unbuttoning his waistcoat as he nods at a clear space on his otherwise messy desk. “Lie down.”

His eyes flare with annoyance as I hesitate, instead taking my time to unbutton the front of my dress until my breasts spill out atop the corset. Forsythe proceeds to remove his shirt and trousers, lest they become soiled or wrinkled—he’s rather obsessive when it comes to personal hygiene. I imagine if I hadn’t been a virgin, he would have never been receptive to my wanton pursuit of him. Thank fuck I was; otherwise, this would be an even more lonely and frustrating existence.

Forsythe removes a dropper bottle from the top drawer of his desk—a tonic of his own creation to prevent pregnancy. His knuckles are whitened where he clutches it in his hand as his eyes lock on to the tightening peaks of my breasts, now tender and aching for his ministrations—ministrations that never come. He rarely touches me with anything more than his cock. Finally, I lie back on his desk and hike my dress up as I bring my knees to either side of my waist to reveal just how slick I am.

Forsythe, now standing in only his socks, openly stares between my splayed thighs—where he insists I keep myself thoroughly groomed. He procured a wax from France for me to do so. As painful as it is, I much prefer it, sometimes leaving a teasing strip of hair, other times making myself entirely unobscured by my otherwise thick, dark hair. He also keeps himself well-groomed, and while I haven’t experienced another man, I know that a groomed male is my preference.

Forsythe stares down at the glistening core of me, cursing under his breath. It makes me feel as though I possess some arcane power to control his body as I watch his cock defy gravity, his body shift into something more—trembling with restraint.

“Please, doctor.”

Forsythe’s eyes leap to mine; something unnatural seems to loom behind his dark eyes. He almost looks like a different man now. Larger. More animalistic. The canines in his mouth are notably longer. I know that my master is different from the rest of us, though I’m unsure how. Logic would lead me to believe he is in some way related to all the various creatures he studies in secret when he isn’t teaching or in surgery.

For the most part, he is a man of control, but in heightened moments—such as now—he struggles to restrain himself. His previously toned but slender form now bulges with muscle. I relish in it because it reminds me so very much of the male in my dreams.

I watch with held breath as Forsythe’s hand takes on a slight tremor, lifting the dropper from the bottle and brings it to my mouth. I obediently offer him the flat of my tongue. The concoction is as bitter as it is sweet, but I’ve grown used to it now.

The desk drawer slams abruptly when he returns the bottle to its home. Unable to wait any longer, I begin circling my throbbing clit with my index finger as Forsythe lines himself up with me. Claws that weren’t previously there prick my thighs, where he takes a vicious grip to hold my body still against his soon-to-be punishing thrusts. The head of his cock breaches my entrance. I feel him grow further—previously rather average-sized, I imagine—but in his aroused state, it grows larger to what I estimate is a thick six or seven inches.

He thrusts forward, drawing a sharp whimper from me that seems to spur him on. My eyes slip shut as he withdraws to the tip before sliding forward once more to repeat the action over and over until he finds his rhythm. Forsythe’s eyes remain fixed on where we are joined, and I allow my eyes to slip shut and visualize the hulking silhouette of an entirely different male.

Endowed with horns, wings, and a tail, he is something I’ve only ever seen in fairytales or described in religious texts. Each time I snoop around Forsythe’s study, trying to find hints of a being with such features, I find nothing. Try as I might, the creatures in his documents, fascinating as they may be, have no such endowments.

In my dreams, though I can scarcely recall the minute details of his visage, he is still so visceral, so real that when I wake up, I can still feel a phantom of his touch. Hear his voice. It’s only as the day goes on and my logical mind berates me with undefiable logic that doubt trickles in—making me wonder if I am truly as mad as my mother once was—only for that doubt to be eradicated when I return to my dreams.

My index and middle fingers work faster as that delicious coiling energy begins to rise through my body. Each one of my muscles tightens, and I swear I can hear an echo of the promise given by the male in my dreams. “Soon, mea floarea.”

Forsythe’s thrusts become frantic. My back arches, and my legs spread further as my climax reaches its peak. Grunting, Forsythe's thrusts stutter before swiftly withdrawing to aim his cock into the petite trash bin beneath his desk.

Though the ache in my body is somewhat relieved, the ache in my chest only spreads further. Ever just the two of us, Dr. Cedric Forsythe has been fair to me, but there is no love there. And without it—or the horned and winged male in my dreams—I feel my soul withering like an unwatered, long-forgotten plant on a dusty windowsill.

The sensation lingers the entire day and as night finally claims its victory in the sky, I undress alone in my bedroom to prepare for my nightly bath. Pressing a kiss to my fingers, I then touch them gently to the small portrait of my mother—rose bud lips, heart-shaped face, dark eyes like mine, and her port-wine birthmark on display. Something she never felt the need to hide, no matter who said otherwise.

Removing my mother’s silver and heart-shaped ruby pendant necklace—one of the few items of hers I possess, and undoubtedly her most valuable—I thumb the silver engraving on its back longingly.

Where my heart belongs. Right beside yours.

I never met my father. He passed before I was born, but I envy the love he and my mother had, nonetheless.