Chapter Twenty-Eight
Samara
It’s just a bed.
That’s what I told myself as I stared at it. Raphael had let me use the bathing chamber first once more. I’d washed off the cosmetics and traded the dress for the scrap of fabric meant to serve as a nightgown.
When it was his turn, he didn’t close the door again. It was my own curse to notice that detail each night. To think of him, without even a shut door between us, sinking into that massive tub.
And now I’d told him we could share a bed.
It’s not that I had never slept beside Raphael before. We’d shared a tent for warmth on the journey over; he’d slept with me under the bed after I’d over-imbibed. Even on this journey, we’d shared a room, but by then I’d been too tired to protest.
But this . . . this wasn’t a last-minute decision. This was something I’d agreed to.
Something I’d had hours to dread.
Maybe dread wasn’t the right word for the twisting feelings in my gut, but it was the closest I was comfortable naming.
I rubbed a hand over my own bare shoulders.
My blouses were dirty from travel, so all I had were dresses.
But Raphael . . . I turned to the wardrobe we’d decided was his.
Several shirts greeted me on hangers, clean, and more importantly, long-sleeved.
I plucked a black one and slipped it on.
I thought of tying it up, but it was actually longer than my nightgown, so I left it loose, the buttons undone.
The slight cedar spice was comforting in a way I hated.
Would it be better to be in bed or out of it when Raphael reemerged? If I was inside it, I didn’t have to get in it in front of him, but I’d be there, lying awake, until after dawn. If I sat outside, I’d have to climb in with Raphael. Which was worse?
Being in the bed was its own ordeal.
I faced the mattress and swallowed, a sharp jagged pebble somehow caught in my throat.
The doors of the bedroom slammed open, the wood splintering.
“Traitors!” the guards snarled as they barged through the chamber doors. The same guards I’d known all my life, who had smiled when I passed by. “Ungrateful whore.”
Their boots thundered over the padded carpet.
My mother, who I’d shared a bed with, sat up and shrieked, “This is an outrage!”
One of the guards backhanded her. “Shut your mouth, traitor.” Then he reached for her, grabbing her in a viselike grip around her bicep, which made her gasp in pain. “You’re coming with us.”
My tiny hand wrapped around the edge of her nightgown, trying to pull her back.
It made no difference. They pried her from the bed with ease.
“The girl?” one of the other guards asked as my mother was hauled away.
“Both are traitors to the Crown,” the leader snapped. “Take her.”
“Leave my daughter alone! We’re innocent!” my mother screamed.
A lady does not raise her voice, she had told me.
She was smacked again, and the guard closest to me ignored her as he pulled me from the warmth of the bed. Wet sheets brushed my leg as I was hoisted away. I hadn’t even realized I’d soiled myself.
They dragged us both out of the room. My mother kept yelling, no matter how many times they hit her.
I just cried, useless, as they twisted my arms and pulled me away.
“Changed your mind?”
Raphael was behind me, his voice startling me from my memories. “No,” I said honestly. Once I made a plan, I tended to commit to it, for good or for ill.
“I can stay up. A few days is hardly a problem.” There must have been some truth to it—perhaps a few days weren’t a problem . . . but several more would be.
When I looked away from the bed, I studied his expression. His hair was damp, his chest covered by a white shirt that clung to the few droplets he’d missed toweling off. His red eyes were a bit dimmer than usual, gray shadows tugging under his eyes.
The immortal was exhausted. He hadn’t slept properly in days, and to make matters worse, he was in enemy territory, by his own admission. To survive, he needed to keep his wits about him.
He was willing to ignore that for me to feel safe, to indulge this irrational fear I had of sleeping in a bed.
“You have guards posted at the door. We should be okay.” It was the rational thing to say, even as I carefully avoided looking at the bed. We should be okay.
I had a deadly vampire who would be within arm’s reach, with two trained soldiers watching the entrance.
Should was an interesting thing. It was like trying to pry open shackles with a key that should fit, but the mechanism wouldn’t unlock.
It started when they slammed the door open . . .
Raphael put a hand on my shoulder. The touch pulled me away from my well of thoughts and brought me back to the present.
“Samara. You will be safe. Nothing will happen. I won’t let it.”
I nodded.
He took a step closer. I had to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. “It’s okay if you don’t believe me.” His words were soft. “It’s still the truth. You’re safe.”
The key . . . it didn’t fit.
But like a tension wrench in a keyhole, it hit one of the pins, and something in me loosened.
Raphael saw it; I know he did. He could read me too easily. The serious look in his eyes eased as one side of his mouth ticked up in a grin. “Nice shirt, by the way.”
“It just—um, mine were dirty and—you can have it back. Or have it cleaned—”
His grin grew wider as I stammered. “Keep it. You look good in my clothes.”
Before I could stammer a reply, he wove around me, pulled the sheets back from the side closest to the door, and got into bed.
He tapped the spot next to him, still grinning.
“Come to bed, little viper.”
“Samara, wake up.”
Thirsty. I was so damn thirsty. Cold and warm at the same time, like an icy ache inside me that burned.
“I really don’t think you mean to do this.”
My eyes snapped open.
And I wished I could die anew of mortification. Raphael was below me, his shirt in shreds with tiny pricks of dried blood from wounds already healing on his chest.
His hands were pressed against my shoulders, grip gentle but firm. Pushing me away from him.
To complete my mortification, I was straddling him. A position I’d been finding myself in a few too many times. But never before when I was aching like this, wanting to grind my hips against his. To press forward and bury my fangs in his neck . . .
Pathetic.
“You’re awake. Good.” The relief in his voice was plain, but he didn’t release me. “I wasn’t sure if it would take until dusk.”
“Why am I . . . what happened?”
Raphael looked slightly uncomfortable. It was an odd expression on him, like he was holding back his words or not quite sure how to shape them. His hair was mussed from sleep, his eyes studying me as he weighed how to answer me.
“Raphael,” I pressed, feeling more than a little panicked. “Tell me. What did I do?”
He sighed, gritting his teeth as he answered. “You tried to drink from me in your sleep. I woke up before you could bite and tried to back away, but you grabbed my shirt.”
The torn fabric. The pricks of blood. I’d scratched him.
And worse, I wanted to lick those drops of blood straight from his chest. My fangs ached worse than ever, even though I’d been drinking other blood.
“What—why would I do that?”
I’d pressed forward without realizing, and at the same time Raphael shifted upright. The motion caused sharp friction between us, and I hissed in a breath at the contact.
I was straddling Raphael, and he was . . . affected.
I needed to get off him, immediately.
Only, that wasn’t possible with his hands holding me at bay. “You can let me go.”
Raphael hesitated, then his grip eased. I scrambled over to my side of the bed with the grace of a two-day-old ogre.
As if I needed to complete the mortification.
My clothing was askew—the shirt I’d pilfered had fallen off, so all I had was the nightgown, which had ridden up through the night.
I tugged it down and reached behind my pillow to grab the black sleeves peeking out and slipped the shirt back on.
Raphael didn’t look nearly as distressed as I felt now. He was, objectively, in worse shape—torn shirt, hair at least as bad as mine—but he was simply curved on his side, propped up on an elbow as he looked at me.
“You were thirsty, so in your sleep you instinctively tried to quench that thirst. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
I scoffed in disbelief. “Ashamed? That doesn’t begin to cover it. I attacked you. You promised I’d be safe, but I’m the one who attacked you.”
And I’d been entirely unaware of it. If he hadn’t woken up, I would’ve bitten him. Hurt him. And never known.
These monstrous instincts . . . was I any different from the vampire who had ripped apart my mother? How long had they been starving? I dug my nails into my palms, trying to calm the racing thoughts, but they just kept coming. I was no different from the monsters. Not at all.
“Calm down. It’s an attack I would’ve enjoyed, if I didn’t think you’d hate me even more for it after.”
I cut him a sharp look. Raphael’s gaze was steady, even. “Don’t say things like that.”
Raphael sat up. “We should have addressed this days ago. I didn’t want to press you. As your sire, I’ve failed you, and for that, I’m sorry.”
My sire. Like he owned me. “Don’t call yourself that.”
“Avoiding specific words doesn’t change the facts,” he countered. “You can drink my blood. You probably should be for the entire duration we’re here. It’ll help with the thirst.”
“I’m—” But the word fine wouldn’t pass my lips, and the silence stretched between us.
Raphael reached out, fixing the collar of my shirt. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. The thirst is natural. Besides, you agreed to live like a vampire while we’re here.”
“I have been drinking.” They didn’t provide a lot of blood, but what was available I swallowed promptly.
“And yet it clearly doesn’t work. If you’re this thirsty, you may try to drink from someone else.”
Anxiety pressed in on all sides. “That’s different. I did this in my sleep—I didn’t mean to.”