Chapter Six
Raphael
Raphael watched his fledgling walk out the door.
The last time he’d done that, she’d gotten stabbed and brushed against the true death. It was only the streak of panic he’d felt through their mental link, a flash that had barely slipped through Samara’s meticulous shields, that had let him race there in time to save her.
So it took an inordinate amount of restraint to not follow at her heels, to not linger in her shadow, watching for any sign of danger. Danger whose throat he could rip out.
As his fledgling, Samara’s bond to him would be heightened.
The desire to safeguard her hadn’t truly changed, given he had already been protective to the extreme.
He’d be attuned to her survival needs, and for the first few days, perhaps weeks, she’d need to stay within the castle.
The transformation would demand she stay at least that near.
If only she’d stay close because she wanted to stay close to him, the way he ached even now to be in her presence.
He lingered at the door, waiting for some sign she might return, that she might want to be back in his presence.
But of course she was with Amalthea. The oracle was greedy for her friend’s company.
She’d been incensed it took Raphael so long to recover from the poison and get her.
He’d scarcely opened his eyes, waking from the coma to find the barest embers of the fledgling bond stirring, when she’d thrown open the doors and asked why he was lazing around.
As if he would ever have left Samara to suffer in that state if he’d had a choice. The half state was meant to be endured for hours, a day or two at most.
Not nearly a month.
It was a wonder she wasn’t entirely mad. To have saved her only to have lost her… he would never have forgiven himself.
Poisoned blood or not. The fact that it was the closest Raphael had come to the true death since the first necromancer he’d dispatched didn’t bear notice. She was his undoing; he had accepted that.
The conniving spymaster had somehow escaped his notice for months.
Worse, the spy no doubt had help, even if not among Raphael’s own guard, then perhaps lower in the castle.
When he hadn’t been guarding his unconscious body, Demos had investigated, but his general’s reports had turned up nothing.
Titus had been careful. Samara’s story filled in some gaps, but the fact the witch had been able to move so easily among his staff, had been able to approach his Chosen, meant danger still lurked in his kingdom.
Raphael’s fangs ached with the urge to tear open the weasel’s slimy throat all over again. The witch had died too quickly.
He let himself muse for a moment what he would have done if he’d had time.
Strangled him with his own intestines? Fed the spy his own fingernails as he ripped them off?
Perhaps he even would have spared some drops of someone else’s vampire blood to help the witch regenerate so he could truly savor it.
There were so many ways to torture someone.
Had he the patience to ensnare the witch in his thrall, he might have made Titus do several of them to himself.
Then he could’ve deposited the putrid corpse at the witch king’s doorstep. The impertinent monarch deserved a reminder of exactly what lay beyond his borders.
Samara thought him a monster? She had no idea what he would become when he was vengeful.
But by the time Raphael had woken in his bed, skin clammy, palms shaking from the aftereffects of the toxicant, his only thought had been of Samara. Not revenge, not violence. Just the girl he’d permanently tied himself to.
He’d raced through the castle fearing the worst. She was alive—he could feel that, as their mental bond had been wide open, all her fear and anger and inconsolable ache for the true death blaring through his mind.
The half state wouldn’t last forever. The fact she’d lasted so long had been a feat. Even another day might have been too late.
But she had drunk his blood. The transformation was completed, her immortality secured.
Raphael rubbed his neck, pacing. The indents had healed quickly, given his age and strength, but the feeling of her novice fangs drinking from his neck lived on inside him. Fuck, it had been centuries since he’d let someone take from him. And it had never ever felt like that.
If he could, he’d have tattooed the spots. Or have her drink so often the spot scarred. It happened—on rare occasions—that one let someone draw so often it scarred over.
His own fangs throbbed anew, this time for a different reason. He threw back a goblet of blood wine, draining it in a few quick swallows, then returned to his bedroom.
His bedroom where Samara had lain. The sheets were askew, as if she’d barely been able to tolerate being in it for a second longer than necessary. Not that he would have let something happen to her while he stood watch, but he wanted her to be comfortable.
She wouldn’t spend another night there. At this rate, he’d be lucky if she didn’t move into Thea’s apartments—which he might only stop if he reminded her that she was, despite the oracle’s gamble, a threat to her friend.
Though he was loath to remind his viper that she was now one of the monsters she feared, she would never forgive herself if she hurt her friend.
She was loyal. She would see the fact that he’d made her a monster as a betrayal.
It had been. There was a dignity to a mortal death he’d denied her.
And as he’d told her: He could not honestly say he regretted it. Regretted her fear, her anger, her pain, her horror. But not the fact she was alive.
It might take her several years to feel the same. Raphael could be patient. Some centuries, it seemed he had nothing but time.
But now his pillow smelled of honey and hyacinth. He would keep it that way for as long as he could preserve the scent.
And in time, he’d ensure that scent never left again.