Chapter 6 Whatever It Takes
WHATEVER IT TAKES
BASTIAN
The scent of fire and blood slammed into Bastian as he entered the dragon’s den.
The vampire staggered, bracing a hand on the cool stone walls.
Water dripped from his black hair and splattered on the floor as he hung his head, trying not to fight through them all for just a taste.
Trying not to ruin everything for a moment’s relief.
All he wanted was to get to that enticing scent of blood, sink his fangs into supple flesh, and drink until the raging ache of hunger inside him was quelled.
He hadn’t seen her yet, but he did not need to. He could envision her easily. Pale flesh, veins a beautiful shade of blue-green, scarlet blood dripping from the wounds in her back.
His fangs pulsed like a heartbeat.
He breathed in—short, shallow, and ragged.
Another breath, stuttering out as his traitorous brain kept trying to talk him into ruining everything for a taste of her blood.
Again, hoping that it would all go away.
But Bastian knew better.
This wouldn’t go away.
Not unless he gave in.
Animal blood was all he had been able to stomach lately—he was sick at the thought of drinking anything if it was not from her.
His bones felt weak and weary, the longer he ceased to give in.
Gods.
He breathed in, scenting Luella’s strawberry-tinted blood, tinged with only the slightest of sicknesses.
Burning embers momentarily clouded the scent of her enticing blood. A heavy hand, hot like coals, fell on his shoulder.
"Are you going to be okay?"
Bastian looked up. He hadn’t realized the others had gone ahead without him, leaving the vampire with Vale, who had held back to speak with him.
The King was nude as the day he was born, utterly uncaring of the fact. Rainwater dotted his chest, and smoke wafted from between his pinched lips. His green eyes kept drifting to the cavernous halls that Bastian knew would lead to Luella.
Bastian swallowed. "I am trying, Vale. But it’s"—he released another shuddering breath—"so hard. I’ve never felt agony such as this."
Murmured voices carried to them. Bastian strained to hear, desperate for her, but he knew he could not be around her—not in this state.
Vale seemed to agree.
Silently, the King held out his wrist, eyes narrowing with barely contained pride. An order, a dare, as he murmured, "Drink from me."
Bastian was shaking his head before Vale could finish. He took a step back, feeling the stone wall brush against his spine. "No. No, Vale. I cannot ask this of you."
"You’re not asking." Vale held up his wrist to Bastian’s face.
Without thinking, he found his eyes tracking the pulsing vein there, fangs throbbing, aching.
But—
His own pride held him back. He swallowed. The blood ran through Vale’s veins, giving life to him. It was a rushing roar in Bastian’s ears. Like thick, hot water flowing through a stream.
He couldn’t stoop so low. Not again. He had worked so hard, tried so valiantly to never rely on them again.
In his youth, Bastian had struggled with bloodlust. In the deep corners of the Silva Noctis, when the five of them had been trapped after being called to the Fate’s lair, with no way out save one of their own making, they had had to survive.
No living creatures resided in the Silva Noctis.
Blood did not flow through the shadowed bodies of the wraiths, and Bastian had no choice but to drink from his companions.
That had been the one and only time he had ever allowed himself to drink from his… friends.
And now, the lines had been blurred. Time had turned them all into something different. Starting that day when they had been called to the Silva Noctis—when they had been forced to survive the wraiths and find escape.
Vale was no longer his equal, but his King. Az had been ostracized, damned to the dungeons just because he did not want their Vincire to be used. Tharen was still an asshole with a superiority complex and predilection for daggers. And Graves was… Graves.
They were a mess, and Bastian couldn’t take from them—not as they were today. He feared that Vale would hold his weakness against him if he dared to give in.
That was why Bastian closed his eyes and forced himself to take shallow breaths. When he felt less likely to snap and dig his fangs in Vale’s wrist, only then did Bastian reopen his eyes and meet the King’s gaze as he said:
"I will not drink from you."
Smoke wafted in thin streams from Vale’s nose and mouth, filling the air with the scent of embers, clouding the iron tang of blood. "If you hurt her, if you drink from her when she is not ready…" Vale let the threat go unsaid. Some things had deeper weight when your mind was left to wander.
"I will never," Bastian hissed, but he knew he could not give his word.
Not on this. When he was consumed by bloodlust, he was not himself.
Vale started to leave, but Bastian stopped him with a hand on his forearm, eyes somber as he said, "If I do…
hurt her, stop me. You have my permission to do whatever it takes. Promise me, Vale."
The low whisper of the others’ voices drifted to them. He could not hear Luella’s sweet tone mingling with the masculine tenors of the rest. They needed to go to her, but Bastian needed Vale’s vow first.
Vale’s wet hair stuck to his forehead, darker with the water clinging to it. He searched Bastian’s eyes. "I promise."
It was good enough. If Vale gave his word, he upheld it. Always.
Nodding once, Bastian released him, and together, they walked into the heart of the dragon’s den, where Luella lay.
Amidst gold and silver piles, grey stone, and orange flames, Luella was a temptation of the purest order.
Her white gown clung to her body like silk. Even the ruined feathers could not mar her beauty. White wings folded closely to her, keeping her safe. She lay half on her side, half on her stomach, one arm stretched out on Vale’s dark furs, fingers curling around something sparkling in her palm.
Her lashes cast shadows on her cheeks, and as she rested, a tiny furrow was etched into her brow, dress bunched up around her thighs, revealing an expanse of cool, milky skin.
And her cheeks were flushed with red, dried tear tracks running down to her chin.
She had been crying.
The thought stole his breath; blood no longer mattered.
Sorrow clung to her like fog.
A piece of leather was rolled out on the ground, holding an array of gleaming tools, bandages, and vials filled with bubbling liquids.
Tharen leaned over the leather, unwrapping a strip of bandages and using his dagger to cut some off, then fitted a steel-tipped dropper into one of the opened vials, sucking up a carefully measured amount of some faintly glowing liquid.
He dispensed the liquid onto the bandages in even lines, white hair falling into his eyes as he glanced up at them entering the den.
Vale walked to a chest against one wall and pulled a fur cloak from within, wrapping it around his shoulders.
Tharen’s wolves sat by the hearth, and Bastian found himself searching for the tiny kitten, a hiss lingering on his tongue when he spotted it bundled in a small ball in the corner, blending with the shadows.
Graves had tugged off his cloak and cowl, laying them near the hearth to dry. Pensive, he sat against the wall, fingers tangling with the chain of his amulet as he watched Luella.
Az sat on the edge of the furs, uncaring as Vale breathed smoke at the sight of the demon amongst his things. The firelight cast pointed shadows on his face from his horns. Head in his hands, his brows were drawn low over his amber eyes, staring at her. Always, staring at her.
Bastian let his Mind magic drift to the demon, brushing against his thoughts like smoke.
What he found was an amalgamation of fear, concern, worry, and…
Utter adoration.
Devotion.
Wrapping around his mind like heavy clouds, permeating everything, the sense of longing and yearning was startling.
Bastian nearly staggered back.
Gods. Az was gone for her. Desperately, unequivocally.
And the vampire knew—he knew—that Luella felt the same for the demon. Even if she couldn’t put it into words. Bastian did not need to go into her mind to realize that.
An uncomfortable squeezing sensation in his chest made him wince as he pulled away from the demon’s thoughts.
Was this… jealousy? Was Bastian jealous?
He rubbed a hand over his chest, walking further into Vale’s den. Maybe the demon had been right to pledge his devotion to her from the very first moment they met. Bastian wanted that—her love. He wanted her to feel safe with him, wanted to hold her, kiss her, care for her. Make her his.
Was it possible? Or had he fucked up beyond repair?
Az’s low voice drifted to him as Bastian stood by the furs:
"She hasn’t woken up yet. She needs the rest, but gods, I need to see her eyes."
"She’s okay." Bastian hoped his voice didn’t shake, fangs throbbing.
The mage kneeled by her side, running experimental fingers down her outstretched arm.
Bastian’s eyes drifted to her curled fingers and the sparkling thing in her palm. It seemed they all realized what it was at the same moment—Bastian felt his lips tug in a tired smile, Az grumbled lowly, and Vale’s hiss filled the den.
"She touched your hoard," Graves rasped. "Feeling like murder, Vale? Let’s take it outside." The male’s voice was low, despondent in a way, as he stared at her.
Bastian traced the air around Graves’s back, empty of wings. The secret must come out eventually, but the vampire wondered how she would react once it did.
Tharen made to remove the delicate charm bracelet from her palm, but Vale stopped him with a hiss.
"Leave it. It’s fine." The King’s words were clipped.