Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
Summer woke to Vincent setting a breakfast tray on the table beside her balcony doors. Pale morning light filtered through the silk curtains, and she realized she’d slept much later than usual—past nine, according to the antique clock on the mantelpiece.
“Good morning, Dr. Vale,” Vincent said quietly. “Master Delacour thought you might prefer breakfast in your room today. To ease the transition.”
Summer sat up, automatically reaching for Rowan’s flannel shirt before remembering she was a guest in a vampire’s mansion. “How thoughtful of him. And Vincent? You should call me Summer.”
A strange expression flickered across Vincent’s usually stoic face. Summer wasn’t sure if it was surprise or gratitude.
“Of course, ma’am. The library is ready for your use whenever you’d like to begin.”
“Actually, I wanted to ask you something?—”
“Vincent.” Fabian’s voice carried from the doorway. On the surface, it sounded smooth and pleasant, but there was an undertone and Vincent visibly stiffened. “I trust our guest is settling in comfortably?”
“Yes, Master Delacour. Dr. Vale was just?—”
“Excellent. Vincent, would you mind checking on the evening meal preparations? I believe Marcel had questions about wine pairings.”
It was phrased as a request, but Vincent snapped to attention, responding as if the request were a command. “Of course, sire. Enjoy your research, Dr. Vale.”
After Vincent left, Fabian moved into the room with his usual fluid grace.
Again, today he wore casual clothes—dark pants and a white Egyptian cotton shirt.
Summer was sure the shirt probably cost a small fortune.
The master vampire, however, managed to make the clothes look like formal attire through his sheer presence.
“I hope you slept well,” he said, as he settled into the chair across from her. He had the easy familiarity of someone accustomed to being welcome everywhere, or if not welcome, then not openly denied anything. “Old houses can be rather unsettling for new guests.”
“I slept fine.” Summer reached for the coffee, trying to ignore how her nipples were catching on the silk nightdress she’d found provided for her.
She was going to stick with her usual t-shirt and panties, but they didn’t seem clean enough for the freshly laundered sheets.
She noted how Vincent had prepared her coffee exactly the way she liked—cream, no sugar.
When had she mentioned her preference? “Actually, I was hoping to start in the library as soon as possible. I’m eager to learn about mate bonds. ”
“Of course. But first, you must eat.” Fabian’s tone was gentle but firm.
“I’ve noticed you have a tendency to skip meals when you’re focused on something.
It’s important to maintain your strength.
” He pushed a covered dish towards her, and along with the aroma of the eggs, a waft of his cologne hit her.
Summer paused with the coffee cup halfway to her lips. She raised one brow. When had he observed her eating habits? Creepy or what? But she remembered they’d shared dinner once, and she’d been too stressed to eat much. “I don’t usually?—”
“Perhaps not consciously. But I’ve found that people in emotional distress often neglect their basic needs.” Fabian’s eyes held hers with concern. “Eat, ma chérie. The books will wait.”
The use of the endearment made her uncomfortable, but Summer found herself taking a bite of the perfectly prepared eggs Benedict.
The food was delicious, satisfying, and far more elaborate than she was used to.
But eating under Fabian’s watchful gaze made her stomach clench.
She shifted in her chair, trying to find a more comfortable position.
“Better,” he approved when she’d finished half the plate. “Now, shall we explore what centuries of knowledge can teach us about your situation?”
The library looked even more impressive in daylight.
Sunbeams slanted through tall windows, illuminating dust motes which danced around leather-bound volumes; creating an almost cathedral-like atmosphere.
The sheer scope of the collection was overwhelming—thousands of books organized by some system Summer couldn’t immediately decipher.
“Where should I start?” she asked, running her fingers along the spine of what appeared to be a medieval bestiary.
“That depends on what specific information you’re seeking.” Fabian moved to a section near the back wall, rapidly pulling several volumes. “Mate bonds, you said? Here—these should provide the foundational theory.”
He set three books on the reading table: “Supernatural Bonds: A treatise,” “Werewolf Mysticism in Eastern Europe,” and “Blood Magic and Soul Connections.” Two of the texts looked ancient and valuable, the type of volumes most researchers could only dream of accessing.
“These are incredible,” Summer breathed, opening the first book to reveal pages of dense text illustrated with detailed diagrams. “Where did you find them?”
“Various sources over the years. Knowledge has a way of flowing to those who appreciate its value.” Fabian’s smile was enigmatic. “I’ll leave you to your research. Vincent will check on you periodically—do let him know if you need anything.”
Summer settled into the comfortable reading chair and opened the first book, immediately absorbed by a chapter on the formation of supernatural bonds.
According to the text, mate bonds in werewolves were created through a complex interaction of magical energy, emotional connection, and physical proximity.
The bond, once established, was considered permanent—an unbreakable link between souls.
She leaned back in the chair, her fingers rubbing the base of her neck.
If the bond is permanent, then why is this one…
well… fading? She rose and stretched her arms above her head.
At least her body felt more like her own again.
No phantom nipple play. She set Supernatural Bonds down and was on the verge of picking up the one on Werewolf Mysticism when she passed her hand over the book on Blood Magic.
Silver fire shot from her palm, and she squealed aloud and snapped her eyes shut.
She sat on her hands, snuffing out the flame.
When she opened her eyes, the book was unharmed, and there were no more flames as she took and held a deep breath and reached for the book once more.
She’d been engrossed in Blood Magic for an hour or so when Vincent appeared with a plate of fruit and cheese.
“I thought you might be hungry,” he said, setting the food within easy reach. “Research can be… consuming.”
“Thank you. Vincent, I wanted to ask?—”
“The texts you’re reading,” Vincent continued, darting glances toward the library’s entrance. “Some of the information they contain might be… upsetting. If you have questions, perhaps I could?—”
“Vincent.” Fabian materialized in the doorway as if summoned. “I believe the florist is here about tonight’s arrangements.”
Vincent’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “I wasn’t expecting?—”
“Nevertheless, they’re at the service entrance now. Would you mind handling it?” Fabian’s tone remained pleasant, but an expression in his pale eyes made Vincent nod and leave without another word.
“I hope I’m not keeping Vincent from important duties,” Summer said after the vampire disappeared.
“Vincent is… dedicated. Perhaps overly so.” Fabian moved closer, his presence filling the space around Summer’s chair.
She felt her skin warm, and hairs rose on her arms. Her body was overheating. She ran a finger around the loose collar of her shirt.
“Vincent means well, but he sometimes forgets my guests may not wish to be burdened with household concerns.”
The phrasing bothered Summer. She tilted her head at her host. “He’s been very helpful.”
“Indeed. Now, what have you discovered about mate bonds? Anything… illuminating?”
Summer gestured to the open book. “The theory is fascinating. The bond forms through magical resonance between compatible souls, creating a permanent connection which should transcend physical distance.”
“Permanent.” Fabian’s voice carried a strange note. “Yes, that’s the conventional wisdom.”
His tone made Summer look up sharply. “Conventional wisdom? You have other suggestions?”
“Oh, the bonds are quite real, quite powerful. But permanent?” Fabian settled into the chair opposite her, his expression thoughtful. “Perhaps. Under normal circumstances.”
“What do you mean?”
“Simply that magic, like any force in nature, can be influenced by other forces. Strengthened, weakened, redirected.” Fabian’s pale eyes held hers steadily. “Even the strongest bonds can be affected by sufficient… intervention.”
Summer felt cold settle in her stomach. “What sort of intervention?”
“It would depend on the specific circumstances. Emotional trauma, prolonged separation, magical interference—any number of factors might weaken the connection between bonded individuals.” Fabian’s voice remained casual, almost academic.
“Of course, such weakening might feel like abandonment to the affected party. Even when it’s entirely involuntary. ”
The words seemed to echo in the library’s silence. Summer thought of the way their bond had faded during Rowan’s fight, then returned weak and distant. She’d assumed it was the effect of his injuries, his emotional state, the physical distance between them.
But what if it was something else entirely?
“You’re suggesting someone could deliberately interfere with a mate bond?” she asked.
“I’m suggesting that magic rarely occurs in isolation. Your bond with Rowan, for instance—have you noticed any changes in its strength, its clarity?”
Summer nodded, not trusting her voice.
“Those changes might be entirely natural responses to stress and separation. Or they might indicate external manipulation.” Fabian leaned forward slightly. “The question is: who would benefit from severing the connection between you and your wolf?”
The implication was clear, and Summer’s hands shook as she reached for the second book. Someone could have artificially weakened her bond with Rowan, or they might be deliberately keeping them apart. But who? And why?
“I need to research this more,” she said, opening “Werewolf Mysticism” with unsteady fingers.
“Of course. Take all the time you need.” Fabian rose. “But Summer? Don’t let the possibility consume you. Sometimes the most obvious explanation is the correct one.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sometimes a wolf who abandons his mate is simply a wolf who abandons his mate. Not all betrayals require magical intervention.”
After Fabian left, Summer stared at the page without seeing the words.
The mate bond pulsed weakly in her chest, and her hands flew to the scar on her neck.
Was it cooler than this morning? Was it hotter?
Did the thin thread of connection to Rowan feel more fragile today?
Was it naturally weakened by distance and emotional trauma?
Or was someone… deliberately severing the link between them?
Could that someone be Rowan? She rubbed at her eyes with the back of one hand.
Then she flipped through the pages desperately, looking for more information about bond manipulation.
The text described various methods for interfering with supernatural connections—blood magic, prolonged exposure to opposing magical fields, deliberate emotional manipulation of one or both bonded individuals.
One passage made her stop breathing:
“The most insidious form of bond interference involves convincing the affected individual that the weakening is natural, inevitable, or deserved. The victim may cooperate in their own spiritual isolation, believing they are protecting their mate from harm or accepting punishment for failures—either real or imagined.”
Summer closed the book with trembling hands. The description could apply to Rowan’s departure. He believed leaving her was noble, he thought he was protecting her from danger, and she deserved better than a “failure” like him.
But it could also apply to her own situation. Here she was, accepting Fabian’s care and protection, grateful for his resources, convinced she needed his help to understand her own nature. What if this, too, was manipulation disguised as benevolence?
The library suddenly felt less like a sanctuary and more like an elaborate trap, its vast collection of knowledge transformed into weapons of psychological warfare.
Summer looked around at the towering shelves and wondered how many other lost souls had sat in this chair, reading these same books, accepting care from a vampire who claimed to want nothing but their company and conversation. Goosebumps rose on her arms.
Outside the tall windows, New Orleans hummed with afternoon life—the bells of streetcars, voices, notes from instruments, the ordinary sounds of people living ordinary lives.
Summer pressed her hand against her chest, then against her claiming bite, desperately feeling for her weak pulse of connection to Rowan.
She felt nothing and let the books slide from her lap.
She glanced at the refreshments Vincent had brought her, wondering if the food was tainted in some way.
She could, after all, be reading about her own situation, or she could be colluding in the means of her own destruction.
She gazed at the luxurious curtain drapes and sighed.
After all, bars were still bars.