Chapter 31
Severin
OUTSIDE, THE WEATHER IS DISMAL and gray, and inside the castle, it feels no different.
My students are subdued during the lecture, some staring out the window in the lecture hall, blatantly disconnected from every word I’m saying.
Looking at them, you wouldn’t know that finals are only a stone’s throw away.
When the academy’s clock chimes, its vibrations reverberating through the corridors and classrooms, my students snap out of their stupors. The lecture hall fills with the sounds of books thumping closed and chairs shifting on stone.
“Do try to wake up before our next class,” I say as the fourth-years start to file past me, heading for the doorway. I return to my lectern, where my journal is open to my notes for today’s class. Given how distracted everyone was today, I might need to repeat this lecture next class period.
I close the journal and carry it to the desk in the corner of the classroom. And I’m looking down, slipping my notebook into my briefcase, when from the corner of my eye I see a pale hand with black-painted nails slide a folded piece of parchment across the desk.
Given the scent swirling around me, I know who it is without looking up. I school my expression into one of detached professionalism before meeting her eyes.
Her expression is composed, but what I see in her stormy eyes unsettles me in a way I can’t quite put my finger on.
“Professor,” she says, and I have to fight not to recall the ways she’s said it in the past. Like when she was in my office working on her fellowship application essay, her academy skirt bunched up around her thighs—
I clear my throat and subtly grit my teeth. “Miss Vandermere.”
“I have a few ideas for my final essay topic. Would you mind looking over them and giving me your opinion on which I should pursue?”
Final essay topic? Already?
I glance down at her hand, then meet her eyes again.
A smirk tugs on one side of her mouth, and I realize that whatever’s on that piece of parchment, it probably has nothing to do with Dangerous Magic Across Time. But students are still hovering around us, and two witches are approaching my desk, looking like they have their own questions to ask.
So I reach out and place my fingertips on the parchment, barely brushing Maeve’s as I slide it out of her grip. At the brief touch, Maeve’s lips twitch, and her gaze flicks quickly to my mouth.
“I’ll review them,” I tell her, keeping my tone neutral. “Good day, Miss Vandermere.”
She gives me a small nod and an almost-imperceptible smile. Then she turns away from my desk, sending that delicious scent swirling around me, and walks to the door without looking back.
Immediately, the other two fourth-year witches step up to my desk. “Professor D’Arques, we wanted to ask about—”
The witch keeps talking, and though I act like I’m listening, my entire focus is on the folded parchment in my hand. What does it say? I want to open it, but with all these students, I can’t. And my next class period starts shortly.
I’ll need to wait until later, when I can read it in private.
Slowly, I slide the letter into a small pocket inside my briefcase. But just knowing it’s there keeps me on edge for the rest of the day.
BY THE TIME I’VE FINISHED my teaching for the day and am finally back in my staff apartment, the rain has intensified outside, tapping against the windows, turning the world on the other side of the glass into a blurred wash of gray.
I go about my routine slowly and deliberately: removing my jacket and hanging it on the coatrack, setting my briefcase onto my desk, pouring myself a glass of blood with a splash of whiskey to help ease my stress from the day.
But with each mundane action, I think of Maeve, and I think of the parchment waiting for me.
The apartment is cold, and I start a fire in the hearth, using the flint and steel on the mantel to send sparks dancing across the kindling. When the flames are going, I stand slowly, then glance over my shoulder at my briefcase.
Finally, it’s time.
I go to retrieve it. When I open my briefcase and pull the parchment free, I note a skip in my chest, a lurch of what feels like a mixture of excitement and dread.
Maeve isn’t one to be coy or dance around the things she wants to say, which makes me even more curious about her choice of communication. What could she want to say to me that’s best done in writing?
Parchment in one hand and my glass in the other, I move to my armchair beside the fire and sink into it slowly. The parchment has nothing written on the outside, no hearts inked into the corners. I smirk at the thought of it.
After taking a swig from my glass, I set it down, then take the parchment in both my hands. And with no further hesitation, I open it.
Maeve’s handwriting stares up at me.
Severin,
You told me that want and desire are dangerous for a vampire. I’ve been trying to determine if they’re just as dangerous for me.
But when I think of you, I don’t feel afraid. You don’t scare me. Though I know you wish that weren’t the case.
You said you would consider it. And now I’m asking you. Not out of impulse, but because I’ve thought carefully about what it would mean. For both of us. And I’m not afraid of it.
I’m ready.
If you feel the same, meet me Saturday night. Our room.
If you decide not to, I won’t hold it against you. But know that I’m taking this seriously. And I know what I want.
You.
—Your Storm
My fingers tighten on the page. The last word sits heavily in my chest.
You.
And beneath it . . .
Your Storm.
In the hearth, a log shifts, sending sparks and flames curling higher, but the crackling of the fire sounds distant.
Your Storm.
It feels like a claim. And I desperately want it to be true, for Maeve to be mine.
I read the letter again, slower this time. Maeve doesn’t hedge, nor does she try to persuade me. She speaks plainly, with a certainty that makes the muscles in my stomach tight.
You don’t scare me. Though I know you wish that weren’t the case.
Yes. No.
I don’t want her to fear me, not truly. What I want is for Maeve to feel just enough fear to protect herself.
From me.
But . . . is there something inside me that she needs to protect herself from? Do I not trust myself with her?
And why is it that she has more faith in me than I have in myself?
As soon as the question arises, I have an answer for it.
It’s because I can’t remember ever feeling like this, not in my 333 years of life. Because despite all the years of restraint and control, I lose myself when I’m around her.
Maybe that’s not right.
Maybe I don’t lose myself.
Maybe I find myself.
I lean back in my armchair and drag a hand down my face, stubble scratching against my palm. Grabbing my glass from the side table, I take a quick swig. But the blood does nothing to satiate my thirst.
Now, I know only Maeve can do that. And it feels almost inevitable to me.
I lift the letter again, reading it three, four, five times.
I’m ready.
Inside me, her words stir something more complicated than hunger.
Our room.
Closing my eyes, I drop my head back against the chair. I know which room she speaks of. And thinking of it brings back memories of that night: Maeve on top of me, hair wild around her shoulders, my cock so deep inside her it felt like a portal to another world.
Now she wants to meet there again.
And she wants me to feed from her.
My fangs ache, and the bitter taste of venom fills my mouth.
It’s been so long since I fed from a live vein. The very thought makes my throat dry and my chest tight.
I imagine Maeve’s pulse beneath my mouth. The slide of my fangs through her creamy skin.
And the first taste . . .
A tremor races through my body, making me clench her letter in my hand, the parchment crinkling in the quiet apartment.
I’ve fed from willing throats before. I know the intimacy in it—the surrender and the dominance both. But this feels different.
Maeve is different.
I rise abruptly from my armchair and pace to the window, where rain still batters the glass.
Three centuries of discipline. Of restraint. Of unyielding control.
I’ve never lost myself in a feed—though I’ve come close—but I’ve also never fed from someone who has lightning in her veins. Whose storm is at once both steadying and untamable. Whose very presence makes me feel like I’ll never be whole again without the taste of her blood.
I stare out the glass at the watercolor landscape, turned muted gray by the rain.
If I refuse her, it’ll be because of fear.
My fear of losing control, of losing myself.
And I’m not accustomed to letting fear dictate my choices. The thought of it makes hot anger race through my veins.
I look down at the letter still held in my fingers.
And I know I have no choice. I knew before today that if she were to ask again, I’d be powerless to tell her no.
Maybe I’ve got this all wrong. Maybe she’s not the one surrendering to me.
Rather, I’m the one surrendering to her.
And for once in my long, long life, I feel okay with not being the predator.
I’ll be Maeve’s prey. And I’ll submit to her storm, in whatever way she asks of me.
I stride across the apartment and grab my glass, draining it down my throat as I stare into the flames flickering in the hearth. The wind and rain whisper against the window to my back.
I’m ready to taste the storm.