Chapter Nine
Marcus inhaled the faintly soapy smell of Winifred’s hair and kept his gaze firmly on her face instead of the smooth expanse of her neck, where arteries carrying her rich blood pulsed beneath the surface.
The moment she’d stepped into his workshop, wide-eyed and wearing little more than a wrapper, he’d forgotten exactly why he’d fled her presence earlier.
She shifted her elbow. “I’ve got it, but it’s caught.”
He wrapped an arm around the base of his invention to keep it from toppling over. Nursing a broken bone would be a fine way to occupy her wedding night.
She twisted, inching closer. “Almost.”
He should have moved away and supported the mechanism from the other side, but he was too fascinated by the warmth of her body and the wisps of her hair that caressed his skin.
Faint, blue lines traced up her pale wrists and vanished beneath her sleeve.
His mouth filled with saliva. A soft caress of her cheek and her resistance would vanish like sand flowing through his fingers.
He could practically taste her hot blood trickling down his throat.
She twisted her shoulder again and hit him square in the stomach with her elbow.
He winced but did not complain. For even considering biting her, he deserved it. No human had tempted him so in centuries.
“I think I have it,” she said.
Of course she had accomplished what he’d been failing at for weeks. They had only been married a few hours, and she’d already proven her worth.
She started to remove her hand from inside his invention but only made it a few inches before she stopped. “My hand is wedged.”
“Release the bolt.”
“I did,” she said. “But I still can’t…” She squirmed around. “I’m… I’m stuck.”
Her rapidly increasing pulse riled his instincts and made his jaw ache with the effort of holding back his fangs.
“Look at me,” he said.
She stopped struggling and met his gaze.
“I’m going to help you,” he said. “To do that, I need to touch you in a manner that might make you uncomfortable. You must remain still, no matter what happens. Do you understand?”
Her cheeks reddened. “Yes.”
He positioned his long limbs until her head was nestled against his chest. Then he maneuvered his arm inside the mechanism beneath hers.
After he freed her, he would take a sledgehammer to the damned thing, but for now, he had to hope his powers would not fail him.
He tucked his arm more securely about her back, then forced his blood into his arm and through his pores until it pooled around his fingertips.
“What are you doing?” Winifred asked.
“Giving you more room,” he lied.
He willed his blood around her bruised flesh, then formed it into a solid mass that expanded until the pressure made the gears groan.
“Try now,” he said between gritted teeth.
She jerked her arm out in one smooth movement.
He released his hold on the blood and fell onto his rear, nearly taking his wretched invention with him.
“Marcus!” She grasped his upper arms. “Are you hurt?”
He tucked his battered limb behind his back for the few seconds it took for his wounds to heal.
When his skin no longer itched, he pushed to his feet.
She remained close, her outstretched hands hovering a few inches from his chest, as if she expected him to collapse.
He used the opportunity to examine her arm, which was streaked with grease but appeared otherwise whole.
“I apologize,” he said. “I would not have allowed you to help if I’d thought you might injure yourself.” He turned to his invention and kicked it. The pile of steel and iron tottered back and forth on its wide base but did not fall. “This thing has given me no end of grief.”
Winifred gave him one last penetrating glance, as if telling him she disapproved of his treatment of his creation, but then she ran her fingers over the smooth block of mahogany that topped the machine. “What’s inside?”
“Samples of blood from my livestock.” He grasped the handle and turned it.
Gears groaned, and there was a clicking within from the bolt they had failed to retrieve, but the wooden block spun.
“I’m attempting to identify the toxin in their blood, but I’ve yet to find a speed that will produce a clean separation.
” His attempts had thus far resulted in several boxes of shattered glass.
Metal vials would have solved that problem, but then he lost the ability to discern the layers in his concoctions visually without first somehow transferring the liquid to a different receptacle.
He’d commissioned thicker glass containers from an artisan in the village, but they had not yet been delivered.
Winifred brought her hand to her mouth, covering her yawn. Behind her, the sky through the window was painted in shades of red. He had perhaps an hour before he would have to rest, which meant she had been awake half the night. “You require sleep.”
She tugged her sleeves down. “I suppose you are right.” She lifted the chain from beneath her wrapper, opened the latch, removed her ring, then placed the necklace in her palm and held it out. “Thank you for letting me borrow this.”
He was tempted to tell her to keep it. He had hundreds of others.
But he wanted the first gift he gave her to be something more meaningful.
An item she would never forget. So, he returned the chain to his neck and slipped it beneath his shirt so the metal, warm from being in contact with her breast, sat flush against his skin.
“I must admit,” she said as they made their way to the door. “This is not at all what I imagined for my wedding night.”
His heart clenched. They had been married for less than a day and he’d already disappointed her.
She tilted her chin up and smiled. “It’s much better.”
He sagged with relief. “I am glad.”
A heavy silence settled between them, broken only by the soft patter of rain on the window. He should have agreed with her assessment, or offered to escort her to her room, or at least wished her pleasant dreams, but the words stuck in his throat.
Her smile faltered. Without saying a word, she turned around, placed her hand on the knob, then flinched.
He closed his fingers around her wrist. “What is it? Are you injured?”
“It is nothing.”
He gently lifted her hand and turned it over so her palm faced up, revealing a long cut along the side of her thumb.
A crimson bead formed on the wound. Before he could consider the wisdom of his actions, he ducked his head, took her digit into his mouth, and rasped the flat of his tongue over the injury.
She tasted like sunlight and freedom, fresh and bright.
More than anything, he wanted to sink his teeth into the thick artery running down her wrist. His fangs descended.
He ran their sharp points over her skin but did not pierce.
She moaned.
He’d taken things too far. She was his assistant, not a pleasant diversion.
It had been centuries since he’d drunk from a human, and all it had taken to break his vow was a single abrasion.
It was shameful and would never happen again.
He retracted his fangs and straightened.
“I apologize. I should not have touched you without your permission.”
“I did not dislike it,” she said.
He swallowed thickly. “Pardon?”
She licked her lips. “Just now. I enjoyed what… you did.” Her cheeks were red, and her spectacles were fogging. “In fact, I was hoping you would touch me. So, you did not have to apologize. I, ah, will leave you to your work.” Then she gathered her skirts and raced down the steps.
He stared after her until she turned a corner.
He could not have heard her right. Was it possible she was interested in pursuing physical intimacy?
There was nothing stopping them. Even if they hadn’t been living together in a castle, far away from his judgmental peers, they were married.
Her own mother probably assumed they’d already consummated their union.
A sudden image of Winifred sprawled on his bed dressed in a sheer nightgown entered his mind, causing him to flush. It had been nearly a decade since he’d bedded a woman, human or otherwise.
When he was sure she’d returned to her room, he rushed down the steps and back to his bedchamber.
The curtains were already drawn and a fire lit in the hearth.
He picked up the goblet sitting beside the fire and drained it.
After the banquet that had been Winifred’s blood, drinking the substance was like consuming what was left in a mop bucket after cleaning the floors.
He set the empty glass aside, wiped his mouth, and recalled the thrum of heat that had shot through him when he’d tasted her.
Having her nearby soothed the chasm in his heart that had deepened with every year he’d remained separated from his nest siblings.
It was not something he would ever speak aloud, but until Winifred had arrived, he’d been desperately lonely.
Maintaining a detached indifference became more difficult with each passing day.
He fell onto his bed, freed his throbbing cock from his trousers, and stroked himself.
Everything about Winifred was intoxicating.
The faint scent of strawberries in her breath, the soft curves of her shoulders, the way she’d leaned into his touch and run the tip of her tongue along her bottom lip.
She’d nearly come apart from the slight touch of his fang.
As the orgasm ripped through his body, he curled onto his side, wrapped his arms around a pillow, and imagined it was his wife.