Chapter 22 #2
You’ve been entrusted with a treasure, he told himself. And now you must prove worthy of it. Don’t damage it at the first opportunity.
When the sunlight under the curtains dimmed and the sun had set nearly level with the horizon, Genevieve woke again, blinking eyes that flashed ruby.
“Hungry, love?” Kendrick asked, running a hand over her cheek.
She opened her mouth and then checked herself. “We need to complete the blood bond, don’t we?”
“That’s not what I asked. Are you hungry?”
She shot him a narrow look. “I suppose.”
“Do you always wake so grumpy, or are those the hunger pangs talking?”
Her mouth dropped open in wordless outrage, and so she did not react when he sat up in bed and pulled her along with him. “Drink from me,” he said.
She tried to put distance between them.
“Can you tell me what you are afraid of?”
She stared at him apprehensively and then shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said honestly.
“All right. Try this.” He rolled up his right cuff and bit into his wrist. The sharp fangs tore the skin and nicked the vein. Blood welled up in a crimson stream. He held his wrist out to her.
She stared at him. “What are you doing?”
“Is my starchy bluestocking going to take me to task or is she going to have a meal before I ruin the sheets?” he asked.
“It just feels—a little intimate,” she forced out.
He said gently, “We’re married, and you spent all day with your face pressed to my shoulder. Your cheek has my shirt creases imprinted in it.”
Narrowing her eyes to slits, she took hold of his wrist, and with a slight twist to her mouth, licked the blood off.
Hot zings of sensation traveled from his wrists up his arm.
“Oh,” she said, in a puzzled but not-disgusted tone.
“What?”
“It’s not awful.”
“Is it usually?” he asked, voice gravely.
“Metallic and coppery. This is…” She took a longer sip from his wrist, her eyes flashing ruby once more. “Like a warm honey. With a sting of fire to it. I wonder if that is what a bee tastes?” She licked the blood from her lips.
“You don’t have to worry about hurting me, Jenny,” Kendrick said. “Take your fill.”
She met his eyes, a spark of wonder dawning. Then she lifted his wrist to her mouth and drank, fully absorbed. Her teeth in his skin sent a shock down his spine. Her eyes met his, and he smiled, pleased.
Genevieve had forgotten what it had felt like to be hungry, and to be fed.
She had forced herself to feed regularly, militantly, and always from those who could spare it. But she had never fed for pleasure from the tacky, metallic taste. She had never drunk joyfully.
Why did Kendrick taste like all the sweetness of honey and all the spice of a Christmas wine? And why did she like it so much?
Her stomach felt pleasantly full, and she reluctantly let go of his wrist, licking the blood from her lips. She held out her wrist to him.
“I’m not hungry,” he said gently, misreading her gesture.
“No,” she said, “we need to complete the blood exchange.” Even if there’s a part of me that shakes for reasons I can’t remember.
“Are you sure?”
She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes at him. “Do you think I don’t know my own mind?”
“I would never presume that, Jenny,” he said with a smile before taking her hand in his.
If she’d had a beating heart, it would have pounded. As it was, all was silent as he lifted her wrist to his mouth. Mirroring what he did for me…? Her swallow lodged halfway down her throat.
She barely felt his teeth break the skin on the inside of her wrist. But she felt him drink.
His mouth was cool on her skin, but sparks traveled up her arm to flood her body.
Her lungs had forgotten she didn’t need to breathe; they were a mite unsteady.
Kendrick didn’t take his fill from her—she hadn’t had a proper meal in longer than he—but he took several long pulls, his eyes flashing gold as he met her gaze over her wrist.
If the touch of his mouth was like embers, the feel of his gaze was like lightning.
For the first time in years, she felt warm enough to flush.
After half a minute, he pulled back from her wrist and licked her skin clean of the blood. His wrist was nearly healed, and hers had begun to knit itself back together. “Are you well?”
“Well?” she whispered. With that thrumming inside her? The fire that had not banked itself since he had given her his blood? “Yes. I am well.”
“Good.” He leaned towards her again. “Forgive me for going about this a little backwards.”
“Backwards?”
“I didn’t even give you a good evening kiss upon waking.”
She blinked at him. Kiss? She had not even thought of it. He had kissed her at the conclusion of the wedding ceremony, but it had been a feather-light touch of lips on hers, gossamer in its sweetness. The kisses to her ruined fingers had felt far more momentous.
“Allow me to remedy it?” he murmured. He cupped her face in his hand.
Genevieve stared at his mouth and managed a nod.
His lips slanted over hers. Her eyes fluttered closed.
She breathed him in, tasting the honey and spice as he nibbled at her mouth.
Her hands buried themselves in his hair of their own accord as she deepened the kiss, dragging her lips across his.
The feeling of his beard against her skin was novel and fascinating.
She felt him smile against her mouth before his lips wandered down her jaw to her earlobe, where he gently set his teeth.
The sensation set off a flock of butterflies in her stomach.
But when he dipped his head as if to kiss her neck, she stiffened.
He moved his head to kiss her cheek, her nose, her eyebrow as his hands stroked her back soothingly. “All right?” he murmured.
“Yes.”
“Good.” He dropped his head and rubbed his nose against hers. “I can’t swear to being a perfect husband, but I’ll never knowingly hurt you, Genevieve. Do you believe me?”
Her eyes flicked up to meet his. “I do.” Then she stretched up and brushed a kiss of her own against his mouth and was gratified to see his eyes glow gold.