CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
25
Draven
A vein throbbed in my temple as Genevieve curtsied. “No servants have absconded, my Lord,” she announced, a touch too brightly. Of course not. The very notion was laughable. This castle pulsed with my will, every corner watched by unseen crimson eyes. Even the lowliest scullery maid couldn’t twitch a finger without my awareness.
She continued, a toothy grin stretched across her face, “The remaining Vampires are currently under the witches’… ministrations. Discretely handled, of course. Your brothers, and everyone else, remain blissfully unaware.”
“Excellent work, Genevieve,” I might have said, indulging her transparent desire for praise. But Morwenna. My focus remained resolutely on her.
“And Morwenna?” I inquired, my voice a low rumble.
The grin faltered momentarily. Genevieve wasn’t one to defy me, but a flicker of something – annoyance? – crossed her features. “Safe and sound, as per your instructions, my Lord,” she replied, the smile returning, albeit a touch strained.
A curt “Good” escaped my lips. Silence descended once more.
“Now, regarding the… rebellious servants,” Genevieve began, her voice tentative. “What is your course of action, my Lord?”
Traditionally, escape attempts were met with swift, brutal justice. Death or a fate worse – servitude in the wolfs’ den. But a wrinkle had formed in my usual resolve.
“Nothing,” I muttered, pushing myself up from the imposing throne that offered little solace to the tempest brewing within me.
Genevieve, ever perceptive, raised an eyebrow. “Sparing them, then, my Lord?” Her surprise wasn’t unfounded. My reign was built on the ironclad principle of swift judgment and finality – second chances were a luxury few afforded.
“Indeed. Is there a problem with that?” I questioned, my voice sharper than intended. It elicited a flinch from her, a subtle reaction that spoke volumes.
“No, my Lord,” she replied quickly, sensing my displeasure. “Your judgment is beyond question.”
I grunted, the familiar gritting of my teeth. This uncharacteristic leniency gnawed at me. Sparing lives wasn’t something I did easily. There, it was again – Morwenna’s terrified eyes, her choked accusation of “monster,” a tide of crimson memories flooding my senses. I pushed them back, a wave of dismissal.
Needing calmness, a distraction... but Morwenna wasn’t here to grate on my nerves with her sardonic wit. I missed her, a damning realization that I promptly shoved aside. Forgetting her was the mandate, and by the Gods, I would.
Turning my gaze to Genevieve, I issued a curt command, my voice devoid of any warmth. “Blood. Now.” My throat constricted, a familiar tension demanding its usual solace. Blood seemed the only thing capable of easing the tightness.
“Artificial, my Lord, or...” she inquired tentatively.
A vein of ice throbbed in my temple, and I clenched my jaw. “Genevieve,” I rasped, the word a gauntlet thrown at her feet. “Which other blood do you think I’m referring to?” My tone was a glacial wind, leaving no room for misinterpretation. “Artificial. Now.”
She curtsied, her usual poise faltering for a fleeting moment. “Of course, my Lord.” Then, a hesitant pause, like a bird testing a broken wing. “Though, if I might be so bold... there is one suggestion that could alleviate both your headache and your… disquiet.”
“What is it?”
“Well, my Lord,” she began, her voice a mere whisper, “I have served you for all my years, and I have witnessed these headaches plague you before. They leave you restless, withdrawn. It crossed my mind that perhaps… perhaps a lack of sustenance might be the culprit.”
My lips curled into a snarl. “You’re suggesting I feed?”
“Indeed, my Lord,” she confirmed, a tremor in her voice despite years of service.
“And haven’t I made myself abundantly clear, Genevieve? You are not to concern yourself with my well-being,” I said, my voice a low growl. “My headaches, my moods – they are none of your fucking business.”
Her chin dipped, a flicker of defiance swallowed by an ingrained respect. “Yes, my Lord. I apologize. It was a mere… suggestion.”
Genevieve Du Lac. Ex-witch, ex-servant to my late wife. I should’ve ripped her throat out the night I went apeshit on Victoria’s killers, but she was the only one I ever saw my wife with. Now, she calls herself Lady Jen, a flimsy disguise for Maidservant Genevieve Du Lac. The “Lady” was a double-edged promotion I bestowed after years of her service.
My jaw clenched.
Years of choking down the beast within, drowning it in grief for Victoria.
Now, Genevieve dangled the option of feeding in front of me, and my fangs were twitching for a neck, any neck, in this goddamn castle.
I bypassed the stairs, levitating across the damn chasm that separated us. My boots hit the floor with a thud as I stopped in front of her. One hand cupped her face, forcing her to meet my gaze. Black hair streaked with silver – a testament to her defiance of mortality, courtesy of my spells, not by blood. Her blue eyes locked with mine as I leaned in. Chubby, she might’ve been, but age had shrunk her frame. “Should I feed on you instead, Gen?” I rasped, mirroring her offer.
Hesitation flickered in her eyes, then a small nod. “If that’s your desire, my Lord, then so be it.” I damn near scoffed. Her loyalty was thick in the air, suffocating. Willing to surrender herself to quell my hunger. As if... she cared. She shouldn’t. Caring wasn’t part of the deal we struck when I took her in. Serve, that was it. No emotions, no attachments. I could kill her now, but it wouldn’t solve a damn thing.
A primal urge snagged at my control.
I extended a hand, a single finger curling to beckon a servant from the shadows.
With a silent glide, one emerged, approaching Genevieve and myself. I reluctantly released my hold on her chin, the silken touch a fleeting memory. The servant, about to bow, found her descent halted by my upraised palm. My bloodlust was too fierce to allow such formalities.
“Your name, servant?” I demanded, my voice a low rumble.
“S-Silva, my lord,” she stammered, her voice barely a whisper.
“Silva,” I repeated, savoring the name on my tongue. “Do you comprehend the gravity of your attempted escape?”
“Punishment awaits, my lord,” she breathed, already resigned to her fate.
“And what form will this punishment take?” I pressed.
“You will drink from me,” she replied, a tremor running through her slender frame. She wasn’t entirely oblivious, then.
A slow smile stretched across my face.
With a predatory grace, I reached out and gripped her neck, drawing her closer.
Her body trembled under my touch.
I brushed her hair aside, exposing the full expanse of her deliciously vulnerable neck.
Then, Morwenna’s words echoed torturously in my mind, fueling my rage.
My fangs extended, visible now, as I could hear the ragged gasps of the other servants, their terror a tangible presence in the air. I could almost taste their fear.
“Beg me, servant,” I rasped, my voice laced with glacial command. “Beg me to drink.”
Maybe Genevieve was right. This unending heartache, a constant companion for a thousand lifetimes, needed an end, it needed to be satiated by not just any blood. It craved trueblood, and here it was, pulsating within reach.
“Drink from me, my lo—”
She didn’t get to finish. In a blur of motion, I sunk my fangs into the proffered flesh. A moan ripped from Silva’s throat, a strangled cry of pain and surrender. The rush of vitae that flooded my senses was… divine. Ambrosial. It was a balm to the aching emptiness, a temporary reprieve from the gnawing torment.
I drained her deeply, my grip tightening on her throat in a primal urge to consume everything, every last drop. Only the faintest echo of restraint kept me from succumbing entirely to the beast within.
A shudder wracked Silva’s body as I drew deeply from her vein. Hell, I couldn’t recall the last time I’d tasted blood this potent. The pressure, the rich iron tang – it was like a shot of the finest narcotic.
Even as I fed, Morwenna’s words echoed in my skull like a haunting refrain: “You’re a monster...” Fuck. It tore at me, the memory of her disgust.
Here I was, indulging in the very act that confirmed her perception – draining a servant dry.
This was the monstrous reality she saw, and yet, it stung like a shard of ice buried deep in my chest.
Fuck.
The pain was so consuming, I barely registered the moment the flow ceased, Silva collapsing to the floor, her skin ashen, eyes vacant.
Shit.
The blood had sharpened my senses to a razor’s edge.
Power coursed through me, a primal urge demanding more.
More to become the “monster” Morwenna branded me.
Maybe it was time to embrace the label.
“My Lord,” Genevieve’s voice cut through the haze. I straightened, my imposing frame a silent command. “Do you still suffer from the headaches?”
Shit.
“Don’t overstep, Genevieve,” I growled, voice laced with steel. “Remember your place. Your concern is unbecoming.” It was a harsh dismissal, but beneath the surface, a truth simmered.
The human blood, particularly from a strong specimen like Silva, was intoxicating. With the back of my hand, I wiped the crimson stain from my lips, a lingering taste of iron on my tongue. “Another serving of...” I paused, my gaze sweeping over the remaining cowering servants. Their terror sent a delicious shiver down my spine. Pathetic, delightful fear. My eyes met Genevives’s once more. “True blood,” I finished, a predatory glint in my eyes. “See to it, Genevieve. Can you handle that?”
A strangled yelp escaped Genevieve’s throat. “Y-Yes, my Lord,” her voice cracked. “I can handle it.”
“And my brothers...” I began, but she cut me off, her intuition honed to a razor’s edge.
“It will be taken care of,” she affirmed, anticipating my needs.
I remained silent, the metallic tang of blood lingering on my tongue. News of the events at my manor would undoubtedly reach my brothers. Walls, it seemed, held no secrets within these halls. The whispers would travel fast, especially amongst the Brotherhood of Sin. Genevieve understood this too well. Her power, a shield against such gossip, would ensure an unnatural stillness would descend upon the castle.
But... Morwenna.
Even after the satiating draught of blood, her image remained etched in my mind. A second love lost, mirroring the pain of Victoria’s demise. My chest ached, a vice tightening around it. The agony was real, yet I held it close, a dark companion. Genevieve, ever perceptive, noticed my struggle. However, as instructed, she offered no solace, no inquiry into my well-being. For I never was, nor would ever be, truly whole.
A monster. Morwenna’s parting words echoed in the desolate chambers of my soul. Was I truly becoming a reflection of my… father? Then, a memory dead, flickered back to life.
“You’re a monster! Mother would never have wanted this!” My younger self screamed at the man before me, his hands stained with the blood of innocents and kin alike. My mother’s relatives, collateral damage in his ruthless quest for the throne. My uncles, culpable in her death, yes, but their families, their children – slaughtered without mercy. In that moment, at the tender age of fourteen, I had condemned him.
My father turned, his voice laced with a chilling fury. “If someone dared touch your eternal mate, Draven, you would do the same.”
“I’d never kill...” The words died on my lips.
A dark chuckle. “Then pray you never fall in love deeply, obsessively, like... me.”
Back then, I swore an oath to never love as my father did.
Yet, fate had a cruel sense of humor, leading me to the woman who would become both my love and my torment.
I ripped myself from the past, the sting of the word “monster” a fresh wound. My younger self’s accusation, now mirrored by Morwenna, echoed relentlessly in the confines of my skull.
Damn her, and the memory that clung to me like a leech.
Sometimes, the lines blurred. Who haunted me more? Victoria, my lost hope? Or Morwenna, the embodiment of despair?
My chest clenched, the dull ache intensifying.
I was a monster, and the weight of that truth threatened to crush me, completely.