Chapter Thirty-Five
Samara
Slivers of light slipped under the curtain when I awoke the next evening. I was managing earlier already, without the ache of the thirst. I celebrated the quiet triumph by letting myself study Raphael. He was on his side, closest to the window, the barest glow of gray framing him.
His long lashes were fanned out, as peaceful an expression on his face as I’d ever seen.
We’d had a quiet evening after returning from the blood den.
I’d washed up and read more of his adventure novel, with his blessing, while he replied to some correspondence.
Messenger wyverns, winged reptiles with only hind legs and wings, came through with regular frequency, and he sent each back with a tied scroll at their ankle.
They didn’t make stops in the Witch Kingdom, apparently, and the underground labyrinth of Damerel was inaccessible to them, so he must have been corresponding with people outside those spaces.
But he didn’t look like a politician now. He just looked like a male at rest. His hair was just past the ear, falling forward over his sharp cheekbones. Then there was the bare column of his throat, where the sheets had fallen away.
In the privacy of this moment, I let myself stare, my fangs starting to ache once more. I could admit to myself that blood from Raphael’s veins tasted nothing like the tepid samples offered. Plain blood, blood infused with mead or wine: all sludge I had to choke down.
“Wondering which vein you’re going to tap this morning?” Raphael’s voice was rough gravel instead of the usual night-silk tone. His lashes didn’t so much as flutter when he spoke.
“How could you possibly know I’m awake? You can’t hear changes in my breathing, because I’m not, and my heartbeat can’t change either.” I whispered the words as though speaking too loudly would break whatever peaceful spell had been cast over us.
His lip curved, just slightly. “It must have been a lucky guess, then.”
I snorted, letting him know what I thought about that.
“I’m not wrong, though, am I?”
I thought about dodging the subject, but I had vowed to stop hiding from my wants.
I could say I was going along with it just for our deal, or because clearly it was more potent than anything around given the way I was up at least twenty, thirty minutes before dusk.
I could even twist it into some retribution—like taking the blood of the monster who made me this way being the least of what I was due.
But I just wanted Raphael’s blood. Wanted to dig my nails into him, pinning him in place, and feel what I felt when I was in his embrace. “I’m thirsty.”
He propped up on one arm, knuckles curled under his head as he angled his throat to me. “Then drink.”
“I’ll get blood all over the sheets,” I protested. I was doing my best with feeding, but I was still a bit… messy.
“It’s one of my favorite places to spill blood,” Raphael offered. “And we can burn them after. It wouldn’t be the first time.”
I ran a tongue over my fangs, trying not to think of what other circumstances Raphael might be spilling blood in bed. The thirst wasn’t blinding me the way it had in the past. It wasn’t some desperate need, just a biologic need to appease. “Here?”
“Anywhere you want to have me, I’m yours.”
I slipped a palm from the sheets and brushed his hair from his ear, slowly tracing the ridge down to the lush veins under his neck.
He turned into the touch, eyes half shut.
I pressed my hand lower, into his shoulder, as I rose to angle myself over his throat.
My gown fell forward a bit, the silk fabric falling askew.
Raphael’s gaze dipped before refocusing on me.
I bent lower, scraping my fangs lightly over the vein in hesitation.
Beneath me, Raphael shuddered.
Raphael. Shuddered.
That defeated any remaining hesitation. I pierced his neck with my fangs.
The first pull hit me like a brush of divinity, light, intoxicating beyond belief.
Another pull. His hands didn’t move, but I felt him arch under me.
I moved my body over him, leg slipping around to straddle him as I rolled him on his back.
“There, viper. Claim what’s yours,” he coaxed. “Use your perfect little fangs and take.”
I obeyed, drinking deeper. He didn’t touch me. He never did when I bit him, but I could feel his reaction, his length hardening, pressing against the curve of my thigh.
Was it because of the bite? Or because of me?
In the thrall of the bite, I didn’t overanalyze.
My body registered sensations: good, potent, right.
I’d been wrong when I thought I wasn’t desperate before.
This was a new type of desperation, an ache not just in my fangs or throat, but a need that pulsed throughout me.
“Fuck,” Raphael groaned. “I knew you’d be good with fangs. You feel incredible.”
I registered his words only dimly, more through the rumble of his chest under me.
His taste coated my tongue, my body, my mind.
My pulls were slow, savoring. Half-aware, I undulated my hips against him, coaxing.
He groaned under me. My own blood grew hotter.
The thirst disappeared, but I drank, ravenous for any part of him I could claim.
When I pulled back, licking the twin bite marks shut, my senses were slow to return. Crimson bled over the sheets. It should have been disgusting, but around Raphael, it just added to his brutal beauty, trailing down his carved muscles.
My insides were wound like a tight cord, and while I had satisfied one craving, a new one slammed in its wake. I’d moved us into a more compromising position than I’d realized, which was something, considering we’d already started in bed. My already short nightgown had risen high on my hips.
“I really made a mess. Tomorrow, we won’t do this in bed,” I vowed.
Raphael didn’t look remotely embarrassed. He looked like he wanted my fangs back in his neck. “Don’t trouble yourself on my account. I have no complaints.”
I didn’t have complaints as much as I had a desire to shut the bathing chamber door and soak myself in icy water. I moved off Raphael, tugging my dress back down.
This was just about fulfilling the terms of the deal so I could eventually leave. That was all it could be. But right now, with Raphael so close he felt like my entire world, that was all a bit too distant.
“You can bathe first,” he said. “We have a visitor coming by in another hour.”
“Who?” No one had come by our chambers except for Gaston, when we needed an escort.
“A surprise.”
I puzzled over that as I plucked a fresh dress from the wardrobe and padded across the mosaic floor.
If nothing else, it would hopefully distract me from the aftershocks of grinding against Raphael and drinking his blood.
Part of me, the part that sounded like my mother, condemned the behavior.
The wanton way I’d pressed against him. The way I wanted to pull my fangs from his throat and drag his lips against mine.
The way I wanted to know how his erection felt not just against my thigh but inside me, in a way I’d never experienced before.
But let the second hell burn me. I’d agreed to live like a vampire and stop fighting these impulses. When bites made vampires feel like that, surely it was just a natural extension.
The fact that the bath was steaming instead of icy made it hard to focus on the surprise Raphael had mentioned.
Was it another vampire dignitary, like Lady Jaen?
Some other political visit? Or was it something related to my training?
We’d worked on blood drinking and thralling—I wasn’t sure how much was left.
Or was it someone else, like Thea visiting, or Larissa coming to teach more horseback riding?
When I left the chamber, dressed and with a slight smattering of cosmetics applied, I went back to pester Raphael.
The bad news was, centuries-old vampire kings didn’t succumb to pestering.
He ignored most of my guesses, informed me Thea couldn’t be joining us here given that it took over almost two months to traverse from the north to the south on horse since they had to avoid both the Condemned Cliffs and the Witch Kingdom, and just glared when I guessed it might be Larissa.
The good news was, the knock at the door came only a quarter hour after I’d dressed, so I didn’t have to wait long.
At Raphael’s signal, Gaston opened our door and let a familiar void into our chambers.
“Ansel?” The flutist from two nights ago hadn’t been in my top fifty guesses. She carried two cases in her hand, and a thin book under her same arm.
“Lady Samara, a pleasure. King Raphael extended me an invitation.” When she saw him pass through the bedroom where he’d been reading, she fell into a deep curtsy. Impressive since she managed that with the book still tucked away.
The cases were small, the right size for her flute. Raphael had brought her here for a private performance, I realized.
How thoughtful. Warmth bloomed in my chest. Thea had alluded to the fact Raphael had done so before in Damerel, but it had been something plausibly denied. This was more overt. I’d have to think of some way to thank him.
I peppered Ansel with several questions while she set up. She perched the thin book tucked under her arm on one of the couches, opening to a lined page dotted with notes, then unclasped the case.
The flute was beautiful, even disassembled. The silver gleamed, obviously well cared for, with several keys the musician could manipulate to change the sound. Ansel connected the three pieces and handed the instrument to me so I could examine it.
Then she opened the second case and began to assemble another flute.
I halted my examination of her flute. “What’s that one for?”
Ansel peered over my shoulder at Raphael, then gave me a funny look. “Your lesson. The one in your hands is my own instrument, but this will be yours to use.”
Lesson. She wasn’t here for a performance after all.