Chapter 35
Severin
I’M HIGH ON THIS—ON Maeve’s soaking cunt gripping my cock, her blood swirling in my mouth and across my tongue. I know I could lose myself in her, become lost in the ecstasy and never claw my way back to the land of the living.
But I have to. Because this is Maeve. And I refuse to hurt her, refuse to draw more blood from her than I need—even if I so badly want to gorge myself on it, become drunk on her and never sober up again.
When she cums for me, her pussy tightening and fluttering around my cock, I almost lose it, almost explode in her tight, wet heat. But I resist.
Until she whispers to me, her nails digging into my back, “Cum for me, Severin.”
I have to pull out of her. I have to slide my fangs from her throat.
But I don’t want to. My instincts tell me to keep going, to be voracious, to be greedy.
No, I tell myself. She trusts me. And I’ll not betray that trust.
I call on my discipline—or what remains of it when I’m around her.
And as my balls squeeze, getting ready to release, I force myself to loosen my jaws.
My fangs and cock slide free of her, and I cum hard, releasing my load all over her pussy and low belly, painting her sweaty body in cum.
My head falls back as Maeve’s legs slip from around my waist to fall to the bed.
Eyes pinched closed, I continue stroking myself and breathing through each massive release.
It’s dizzying, disorienting. And through it all, Maeve’s blood swirls inside me, making my veins tingle with warmth, with something that feels like sparks of lightning. My senses feel sharper too, like they’ve been run over a whetstone.
I’ve never felt like this after a feed before.
Drinking from a live vein always results in a sort of high, and I’m certainly feeling that, but I’ve never experienced something like this.
My body feels electric, and as I open my eyes and look down, I half expect to see light glowing from beneath my skin.
Instead, I see Maeve, sprawled on the soft mattress, her hair a beautiful mess, her eyes closed as she tries to catch her breath. And on the side of her neck, there are two round puncture wounds, still dripping blood.
Fuck.
I quickly lean down and trail my tongue across the marks, making her tremble at the contact.
A vampire’s saliva has a chemical compound that slows bleeding and encourages wound healing, and one swipe of my tongue across her wounds stems the blood flow.
It doesn’t heal them right away—she’ll be sore for some time after this—but it prevents her from bleeding further.
Her eyes are still closed, and suddenly, I need to see them, need to hold her gaze with mine and make sure she’s okay. Make sure that we’re okay.
I place one hand on her cheek and brush my thumb along the soft spot beneath her eye.
“Maeve,” I whisper. “Look at me, furtuna mea.”
My storm.
Slowly, she stirs beneath me. My heart races.
Is she okay? Is she hurt? Does she regret this?
Her eyes flutter open, unfocused for a moment. Then they find me.
And when she smiles, it’s like the sun parting the clouds, bathing the world below in light and warmth. It makes me catch my breath.
Before she can say anything, I wrap my arms around her and press my face into the crook of her neck, being mindful of the bite marks.
I breathe in her scent, letting it surround me like a cocoon.
And I’m quite certain that when I emerge—from her arms, from this room—I’ll be doing so as a changed man.
Beneath me, she lets out a tired laugh. “What is it?” she asks, her fingertips stroking my nape softly.
How can I put into words what this is, what I’m feeling?
It feels like watching waves pummel the shoreline during a hurricane. It feels like standing atop a mountain peak with the wind threatening to throw you from the summit. It’s breathless and beautiful and terrifying and . . .
Between one beat of my heart and the next, I realize what it is: love.
My marble heart has cracked open for her, and now everything is flowing in, overwhelming me. Tears threaten to flood my eyes, and I squeeze Maeve tighter, trying to keep them from escaping and dripping onto her skin and into her hair.
Her hands stroke down the length of my bare back, my skin slick with sweat. The touch is soothing, grounding. Somehow, it makes me feel safe. Like I didn’t just potentially ruin the first thing that’s meant anything to me in centuries.
When I’m sure there are no more tears in my eyes, I release my grip on Maeve and rise up onto my elbows.
Looking down at her, I whisper, “Are you okay?”
Her lips twitch into a sleepy smile, and she nods, then winces and lifts a hand to the side of her throat. Her fingers play across my fang marks, and then she meets my eyes.
“I’m better than okay,” she whispers. “That was . . .” She seems to search for the right word, then lets out a breathy laugh. “It was . . . incredible, Severin.” Her gaze holds mine, the purple in her eyes looking darker now as the fire has burned low in the hearth.
“You don’t . . . regret it?” I ask, fear squeezing my muscles tight.
But she douses that fear quickly. “Of course not.” One of her hands comes up to brush a strand of hair from my eyes, and then she traces the line of my jaw, the column of my throat, all the way to my heart.
She presses her palm to my skin, going quiet for a moment, her eyes closing. A furrow forms between her brows.
Beneath her touch, I feel my heart thrumming, the frantic beat from earlier starting to slow.
When she looks at me again, she says, “My heartbeat matches yours.”
I narrow my eyes.
“Here,” she says. “Feel this.”
She shifts in the bed, gently pushing me down onto the mattress beside her. Then she guides my hand to her chest, between her breasts.
“Close your eyes. Feel my heart.”
I do as she says.
And though it takes me a moment to find, she’s right. Her heart and mine beat in tandem, each thrum of blood through our veins matching the other’s rhythm.
Like we’re of one breath. One soul.
And I don’t quite understand it.
I open my eyes.
“Does this always happen after a feed?” Maeve asks, a mixture of quiet wonder and curiosity painting her tone.
She sounds tired but not unhappy. And with every word she speaks to me, my worries ease a bit more.
She doesn’t regret it. She’s okay.
Now it’s my turn to reach up and draw my fingertips across her face. They trace her brow, then sweep a lock of silky dark purple hair behind her ear.
Has this ever happened to me after a feed? I search my long memory, sorting through the blur of moments I can recall. Then I shake my head. “No. This is . . . different.” Though I’m not sure why or how, and I don’t know what it means for either of us.
But it makes Maeve smile. “Does that mean I’m special to you, Professor?”
I think she intended it as a lighthearted joke, but it pierces me through the chest.
Does she not know? Does she not realize what this means to me? What she means to me?
Slowly, I rise up onto one elbow, then wrap my free hand around the back of her head and draw her in, pressing her forehead to mine.
“You’re more than that, Maeve. Don’t you understand?”
My whisper settles between us. There’s a moment of stillness in which all we do is breathe. Then Maeve softens, moving closer, her body curling around mine like water around river stones.
She fills all the empty, hollow spaces, warming my skin with hers, pressing herself to me until I can’t tell where I end and she begins.
“I think I do,” she whispers.
And though I can’t see her face with the way she’s got it nuzzled into the crook of my neck, I’m quite certain I feel hot tears against my skin.
I wrap my arms around her, squeezing her tight.
Good. I need her to understand. I need her to know that I’ve taken nothing lightly.
Every glance, every touch, every moment we’ve stolen for ourselves—I’ve carefully pondered each one, have considered and reconsidered what it could mean for me and, more importantly, what it could mean for her.
Special doesn’t even begin to cover the depth of my feelings for her.
Maeve shifts a bit, and I ease my grip from around her. I can feel her wipe her cheeks, and then she wiggles herself onto the pillow beside mine and looks into my eyes.
And hers widen.
“Your eyes,” she says.
Oh, right. I’d almost forgotten.
“They’re . . . turning red.”
There’s no mirror beside the bed, no reflective surface I can look into. But I know the color they take on after a live feed: a startlingly bright crimson, so vibrant they appear at times almost to glow.
“It’s from feeding,” I tell her.
She stares into my eyes for a moment longer, and then her lips curl into a smile. “I like it.”
I arch a brow. “Why?”
Now her smile grows. “Because it’s like I’ve marked you too.” She reaches up to touch my marks on her neck. “You marked me here.” Then she brushes those same fingertips across my cheekbone. “And I’ve marked you here. Like we . . .”
She hesitates, her brow furrowing.
“Like we what?” I ask.
Still, she seems to debate saying whatever is on her mind. And I always want her to tell me what’s on her mind. I want to know everything about her. I could probably spend my next 333 years just listening to Maeve tell me what she thinks, what she feels, what she fears.
Her gaze hardens in that courageous way I’ve come to expect from her. “It’s like we belong to each other.”
The words make my heart squeeze, and she draws a breath, as if hers just did the same.
“Then you do understand,” I say into the firelit room. “You understand that I’m yours now, furtuna mea.” I clench my teeth for a moment, battling down the emotion trying to rise into my eyes. “Until you no longer want me. I’m yours.”
The hardness in her eyes falls away. She leans forward and captures my lips with hers, and I feel, for the first time in centuries, like maybe I can let someone else take control.
And maybe that someone is Maeve Vandermere.