Chapter 18
Eighteen
Corabeth
Rooke grew more restless with each passing day, although he hid it well.
It became apparent as Corabeth watched him when he wasn’t aware.
When he was reading, there was a constant tick in his jaw.
When they took walks in the garden, Rooke’s head twitched towards each sound that came from the forest. When he spent less and less time with Corabeth, although his relief was obvious each time he saw her.
“Surely there must be another village or town nearby?” Corabeth asked on one of their walks. Her hand resting on his arm was no longer an oddity when they walked.
Rooke shook his head. “None that border my woods,” he said, "and I am not making you walk long distances through the snow with an animal in tow.”
“Then,” Corabeth said, searching for a solution, “I’ll go to my village.”
“Corabeth,” Rooke said, and the way her name sounded from his lips sent a jolt through her, “I will not make you return to your village for my sake. You really mustn’t worry about me.”
Corabeth tried to find comfort in his assurances that she now heard more and more of, but her fears were confirmed when, just two days after that conversation, Corabeth heard a commotion in the hall. She was not yet asleep, only starting to drift off, when a loud crash came from not too far away.
Corabeth threw the covers off and hurried to the door, her sleeping gown swishing around her ankles.
For Corabeth’s sake, Rooke had started to leave a few sconces burning in the main hall.
Now, one of those sconces was knocked to the ground.
The flames had started to catch on the carpet, but Rooke was stamping them out effectively, leaving behind burnt patches.
The air was thick with the smell of smoke.
“What happened?” Corabeth asked, rushing to him.
Briefly, there was an animalistic glint in Rooke’s eyes as they flashed to her. As if for a split second, he didn’t recognize her.
“The light was irritating my eyes,” he said, all at once himself again. “Forgive me, I wasn’t myself.”
The last of the flames went out, and he just stood there, head lowered. For a moment, he swayed.
“You can’t go on like this,” Corabeth exclaimed, rushing to him and throwing an arm around him, as if she could hold up his weight if he decided to faint.
“I know,” Rooke said, defeated. “But I’m alright now.”
Gently, he pried Corabeth’s arm from around his body and gathered her hands in his. His touch had grown cold.
“Listen, Corabeth,” he said, unable to look her in the eyes, “I think you should go downstairs into the dungeon.”
“What?” Corabeth reared back but didn’t pull her hands free.
“It’s safer for you there. I can keep hunting. You can lock yourself away and I won’t be able to hurt you,” he said, the words falling as heavily as rocks.
Corabeth almost laughed, the thought of locking herself away from Rooke so ridiculous now.
“No, I won’t do it,” she said.
Rooke dropped her hands in frustration. “You stubborn girl,” he said, his anger flaring one moment but deflating the next.
The solution was so obvious to Corabeth. It had been for some time now. It seemed laughable that Rooke had not thought of it himself. Perhaps he had, but his well-mannered nature didn’t allow him to suggest it.
“Please,” Rooke pleaded, enough pain in his voice that Corabeth’s own heart threatened to break. “I do not want to hurt you.”
“It’s time to stop this,” Corabeth said gently and took a step closer to Rooke, peering up into his tortured eyes. “Feed on me.”
It was Rooke’s turn to rear back. “Absolutely not. Do not speak of this again,” he said and turned to storm down the stairs. “I would rather imprison myself and waste away in eternal torture than hurt you.”
Corabeth was not far behind, her bare feet padding on the stone floor when she reached the bottom of the stairs.
“Who’s being stubborn now?” she asked and grabbed Rooke’s arm to stop him. “You can feed without killing, yes?”
Rooke seemed reluctant to answer, already seeing where she was heading, but he nodded nonetheless.
“Then you take just as much as you need and I won’t even miss it,” Corabeth said, her hand still on Rooke’s arm. “Spare me a cold night in the dungeon, will you?”
Rooke saw the logic; he had to, although he was still fighting it.
“I never wanted to… It’s not why I brought you here,” he said somewhat feverishly, desperate for Corabeth to know the truth of his intentions.
“I know,” Corabeth said with a gentle smile. “Now, if you’re quite done with the melodramatics?”
This prompted a small huff from Rooke that could have been the beginnings of laughter.
Corabeth slipped her hand down Rooke’s arm and took his hand in hers with a boldness that surprised herself. She led him through the darkness into the library, where the embers of a fire were still glowing an angry orange. Without resistance, Rooke let himself be seated in his usual chair.
Corabeth’s pulse stuttered in her neck but she kept her movements calm and sure when she stepped between Rooke’s parted legs and presented her wrist to him. He looked away as if the sight pained him.
“Will this work?” she asked and a little waver in her voice betrayed her. She knew this needed to be done. She was willing. But it was hard to separate the thrill from the fear.
Rooke looked up at her, a war still waging behind those black eyes of his. At that moment, Corabeth was equally convinced he might bolt or go along with it.
Instead, Rooke took Corabeth’s hand, shut his eyes, and pressed her palm against his forehead, as if praying to her. He released a long sigh.
“Will it hurt?” she asked, quite in spite of herself.
When Rooke lifted his head again, his lips were parted, revealing four elongated fangs—two on either side of his front teeth. Corabeth had to fight to keep from startling.
“Some,” he admitted.
“And you’ll stop when it’s time?” she asked, again unable to keep the words from tumbling out.
“I never have to start,” Rooke said, giving her an out, but Corabeth shook her head.
“I’ll stop. I promise,” he said with such certitude that Corabeth felt her shoulders relax just a fraction.
Rooke’s thumb slid across the delicate skin on Corabeth’s wrist, and without much warning, he pressed his open mouth against it.
One moment, she was feeling his hot lips, the next, a dull pain as his fangs at first struggled to pierce the skin.
The pain grew and grew, and Corabeth thought for a moment she might scream, but then she felt her skin give.
Felt the hot flow of blood that Rooke started to lap up greedily.
A satisfied groan rumbled deep in his throat as he swallowed and swallowed.
Corabeth was mesmerized. She felt her heart pump her own lifeblood into Rooke, the pain only perceivable now when he sucked to get more out of her.
But Corabeth found the pain easy to ignore in favor of other things.
For instance, the feel of Rooke’s lips on her skin, the way his tongue moved against her, the strange intimacy of this moment.
As if her body had a mind of its own, she leaned closer to Rooke until his head rested against her stomach, only the thin fabric of her nightgown separating them. Slowly, she brought her other hand up and placed it on his head. Slid it down his hair again and again. Like a mother feeding its young.
When Rooke unlatched and looked up at her, she didn’t know if she was dizzy from the blood loss or from the startling realization that she liked seeing her blood on Rooke’s lips.
“Thank you, Corabeth,” he said, his relief apparent in his eyes.
Corabeth could only stare in awe, her lips parted as her chest rose and fell in quick succession.
“You’re alright now?” she finally asked, remembering she should probably say something.
Rooke had pulled a clean, white handkerchief from his pocket and placed it on the four puncture wounds that were still bleeding slightly. A familiar calm had returned to his movements.
“Yes, thanks to you,” he said and placed Corabeth’s other hand on the piece of cloth to hold it in place. “Are you alright?”
“Yes, perfectly,” she said too quickly. Now that the moment was over, she felt awkward. As if Rooke might look at her and see through her in a single breath. As if her blood inside of him might reveal the kind of thoughts she’d had during the feeding.
Rooke’s eyes were no longer a reflection of his hunger as he searched her face for something.
Forgiveness, perhaps. Corabeth was too lost in her own turmoil to give it, her heart beating too loudly in her ears.
She missed the moment Rooke dropped his gaze, his shoulders stiffening. The way he looked away with regret.
“You should rest,” he said and rose, forcing Corabeth to take a step back, “I can walk you to your room.”
“No need,” she said, pulled out of her daze long enough, “Good night.”
Corabeth simply turned and walked away, still holding the handkerchief to her wrist.