Chapter 34 Genevieve
Genevieve
“Gen, are you sure?” Kieran asks against my skin, his lips pressing tentative kisses along the crook of my neck.
We left the ballroom together as soon as we finished dancing, my desire to be with him—and him alone—filling me with reckless abandon.
I don’t care if the entire court knows I’ve chosen to spend my birthday with Kieran Greenbluff.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life, Kieran,” I reply, my thighs falling wider as Kieran’s hips meet mine.
His breath releases in a raspy exhale. “Promise me you’ll be mine forever. I can’t—I can’t have you if I know someone else will claim you.”
“I promise, Kieran. I’ll always be yours.”
My words are punctuated by the roll of my hips, a sharp cry as our shared promises fuse with our bodies.
I wake to a groaning cry in the night. Listening closely, I know it must be coming from down the hall in Kieran’s rooms. No one else occupies this floor of Huntley House, but I’m apprehensive about leaving my bed.
He clearly wanted privacy, refusing to let me share his room.
Then comes a louder cry, the sound of pain—or panic—followed by a sharp crash, glass shattering into tiny fragments.
I can’t lie here, listening to him suffer. He could be injured and in need of help. I slip on my robe and slippers, provided by Mrs. Andrews, and pad down the hallway toward the sound.
A muffled moan fills the air as I push open the unlocked door. The room is large and sparsely furnished, making it feel all the bigger. I see a figure on the floor, rolling and groaning.
“Kieran?” I whisper as he shakes violently. His shirt is off, and he’s writhing in agony across broken porcelain.
“No, Kieran! Let me help you!” I rush to the gas lamp, lighting it quickly before moving toward him to assess his injuries.
What I see makes me suck in a sharp breath: blue blood splatters his chest. It cannot be possible.
Kieran isn’t a blueblood. He’s always been a redblood.
I think back to all his skinned knees and fencing injuries from our childhood—always, his blood flowed crimson.
He thrashes against what appears to be a broken pitcher, embedding the shards deeper into his chest, his arms, his back. It’s everywhere, indigo streaks slashed across his bare skin.
“Kieran!” I cry, shaking him gently, but he doesn’t respond. He moans some incoherent words, and all I can make out is my name.
“Yes, it’s me. It’s Gen. I’m here, Kieran—you’re safe.”
Slowly, his eyes open, but he lets out an anguished cry.
“I’ll take care of you,” I murmur. “Come now—there’s a broken pitcher, and you’ve managed to injure yourself.
” I pull him up to a seated position, guiding him forward and away from the fragments.
He’s disoriented, and I’m not sure if he recognizes me, but I continue speaking softly as he groans in pain.
I go to the basin on his bureau, pour water into the bowl, and wet a cloth. Then I kneel beside him and begin to clean his wounds, extracting the shards of porcelain as gently as I can. He growls, but remains still, his head hanging low.
“I’m here, Kieran. It’s going to be alright,” I reassure him. After painstaking minutes of removing fragments and wiping away blue streams of blood, I finally exhale, realizing I’ve done all I can.
“Come, let me help you into bed,” I insist. He moves without speaking, allowing me to tuck him beneath the covers.
His low moans fill the room as I turn the light down and slip off my robe.
Climbing in beside him, I feel the tension in his body—his muscles seizing and straining even in rest. I begin to rub the tightness from his arms, then his chest, until he finally relaxes into sleep.
I wrap my arms around him and whisper his own words back to him: “I’m not leaving you.”
He’s kept this secret from me, and I can’t help but wonder why. If he’s a blueblood, how could Mother refuse our match? And why wouldn’t he have come back to tell me that somehow, impossibly, he’s become one?
Morning light streams into the room, and I hear a quiet shuffling sound.
A maid is here, cleaning up the broken glass and bloodied toweling.
I cringe, wondering what she must think of this gruesome scene.
I pretend to be asleep as she hums to herself, apparently unfazed by the blood—or by the princess in Kieran’s bed.
Finally, I hear the click of the door. I turn to Kieran. His face is smooth and relaxed in sleep. Across his chest and arms are little blue nicks from his injuries last night. He looks like a fallen angel, and I allow myself a few moments more of this peaceful unreality, curling closer to him.
He rolls onto his side, pulling me into a tight embrace, his rhythmic breathing warming my exposed neck in a way that feels both comforting and foreign.
I’ve never slept like this with anyone—not even Kieran—and it feels forbidden, like I don’t deserve this sort of comfort.
I close my eyes again, allowing myself this one small indulgence before I face the truth of why Kieran has kept such a life-altering secret from me.
When I wake again, it’s to Kieran releasing his hold and stretching his taut body. “You’re actually here?” he asks. “I thought it was a dream.”
I roll over, meeting his green eyes, and stroke the scruff of his unshaven face. “Not a dream, actually. I woke to find you injured and helped clean you up. You didn’t seem quite cognizant, and I stayed to try to soothe you. Eventually, you rested without crying out.”
He sits up, examining himself, and I trace one of the slices on his chest with my finger. “You cut yourself on some broken porcelain. There was quite a lot of blood.”
“Blood?” His rich, olive skin fades to ash.
“Yes—surprisingly, it was blue. Kieran, why didn’t you tell me you’re a blueblood? How is that even possible?”
He looks stricken and turns his back to me, placing his feet on the ground.
“I’m not a blueblood. Not really, anyway.
My blood was poisoned in the mines, and when I got this”—he turns toward me, tracing the faint scar on his face—“when I was sliced by a falling chunk of ore, I woke up with a fucking gift.”
My heart thrashes in my chest as I move to his side, slipping my hand onto his shoulder. He doesn’t jerk away, though I expect him to.
“You have a gift? How is that possible?”
He shakes his head. “I was young enough, I suppose. Most who are forced into becoming bluebloods don’t receive gifts.
Most just perish, and those who survive are too injured to work.
Your people call it a gift, but it’s an abomination.
There shouldn’t be bluebloods. The sooner we reduce exposure, the sooner they’ll disappear completely.
Look at Gabe and Mari—they carry the blueblood strain from their exposed ancestors, but it’s so weakened now they don’t have gifts.
It’s better that way, anyway. Look what it’s done to you. ”
I stroke his arm—and feel nothing. None of my curse flows into him.
In fact, if I think about it, he hasn’t been affected by my touch at all.
He’s always just shown his own emotions, his own reactions to our contact.
Every time we’ve touched, I’ve been too lost in my own feelings to notice.
Even yesterday, when I was baffled by his restraint—it wasn’t because he had more control than other men.
He was restrained because he chose to give me pleasure instead of seeking his own.
He chose to give rather than take, and felt no overwhelming urges from my curse.
“You nullify others’ gifts, don’t you?”
He gives me a sardonic smile. “You’ve finally realized it, Princess.”
Heat rises to my cheeks. “I did. I’m embarrassed to admit I thought it was something special between us—that it was us, not your gift, that made our physical connection feel different.”
His eyes darken, and he looks at me with such intensity I fear I’ve insulted him.
“Never again, Gen. Never. Promise me I’m the only one who will touch you from now on.
I don’t want to know what happened to you because of that curse.
I’m afraid I’d kill every bastard who’s ever laid hands on you—and your family, for allowing you to think it was acceptable.
But from now on, promise me it will only be me. ”
I press my hand to his cheek, drawing him close until our foreheads touch. “There will be no other man but you, Kieran Greenbluff. Morris Blackwell—whatever you wish me to call you.”
“Good,” he growls before kissing me with a fierce hunger. Does he truly believe me? Does he realize that even my mother can’t object to him now? I’m determined to make him understand nothing will stop me from finally making him mine.
He pulls back, all business once more. “We have work to do. It won’t be easy for you, but if you’re going to change this country, you need to see what’s been done.”
“Yes, of course,” I say, rising to stand beside him. “I’m ready.”