Chapter 37
Severin
I WAKE MONDAY MORNING FROM a deeper sleep than I’m accustomed to. Usually, my sleep is short and fitful, punctuated by dreams of thirst and of void. But last night, I dreamt only of her. And as my eyes open and immediately adjust to the gray of early dawn, she’s already on my mind.
My apartment is still and cold. The fire went out in the night, and the air has enough of a bite that I hesitate to get out of bed right away.
Even that is different. My structure and discipline continue to wane, as if my sharp edges are softening with each brush of Maeve’s skin against mine, like she’s the river and I’m the stone.
I reach up and scrub a hand over my face, then realize something with startling clarity.
I’m not thirsty.
Usually, I wake feeling parched, like I’ve been traversing a desert with nothing but the clothes on my back and the sun on my face. But this morning, my throat doesn’t ache, and that incessant itch beneath my skin is gone.
Because Maeve’s blood is still feeding me. And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel hollow inside.
I’m still lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, when the beat of my heart shifts subtly. If I weren’t lying so still, I may not have noticed it. Warmth accompanies the change, spreading slowly through my body, like petals unfurling to accept the soft touch of sunlight.
And a knowing arises in me without me having to go searching for it.
Maeve.
Somewhere in this castle, she’s waking.
And I shouldn’t know that. My brow furrows as I continue to stare at the ceiling.
Why do I know that?
For a brief moment, I imagine I can feel the magic in her veins, the storm inside her waking alongside her, stretching itself as though it has limbs.
Then everything steadies. My heart rate goes back to normal, the heat in my body fades, and I’m left lying there in bed, alone, with a cold bite of air against my face.
For a short while, I puzzle over the sensation, wondering if I imagined it.
I push my blankets away and rise, the first touch of my bare feet on the floor sending shivers across my body. Immediately, I light a fire in the hearth, then warm my hands for a moment before moving into the kitchen.
Typically, I drink a glass of blood first thing in the morning, and that’s especially true on Mondays, when I have Maeve in my first class of the day.
Her scent, her proximity, the very awareness that she’s near—it’s enough to make my thirst almost unbearable, to test my discipline like nothing else does.
I pull one of my bottles from the blood bank out of the kitchen cabinet and pour myself a glass. The metallic tang reaches me as I lift the glass, but my body doesn’t react as it normally would, with a need so strong it’s almost impossible to ignore. Rather, I feel . . . disinterested.
Still, I take a sip. And the flavor is so mute as to be almost tasteless. It’s stale, unalive.
In contrast to Maeve’s blood, I’m not sure anything will taste fulfilling or satiating again.
With a shake of my head, I lower the glass without finishing it.
Shit.
I knew this could happen, that a single taste of Maeve’s lifeblood could cause everything else to taste dull in comparison. But I didn’t realize it would be this strong, especially after just one feeding.
And I still don’t know why I feel her with me, inside of me.
I’ve drank from many throats in my long life, but none have ever caused this type of awareness or connection. I’m rather certain I imagined it, imagined I could feel her waking, imagined I felt the squeeze in her heart yesterday when she saw me step from the carriage in the castle courtyard.
Perhaps that’s all this is.
And perhaps there’s no cause for concern.
I move to my wardrobe to get dressed for the day: dark trousers, crisp long-sleeve shirt, waistcoat, jacket.
This routine is grounding, something familiar when I feel like everything else is starting to slowly unravel around me.
As I fasten the gleaming golden cuffs at my wrists, I catch my reflection in the tall mirror beside the wardrobe.
And all I see is red.
Fuck.
I’d almost forgotten.
My eyes are fully crimson, the color bright and rich. They’re unmistakable, as is the meaning behind them.
I’ve recently fed. Not from donated blood, but from a live vein.
From Maeve.
I’ll need to manage myself even more carefully now. It’s not strange for a vampire to have fed—it certainly won’t be held against me—but I must be mindful not to do or say anything that may cause suspicion or curiosity into whose neck I drank from.
And I hope Maeve is careful to do the same.
An hour later, I’m headed to my first class of the day.
The castle is awake now, and students move through the hallways alone or in groups, yawning and trying to rouse themselves for the day.
I get my fair share of looks as I traverse the corridors to the history wing, and by the time I reach my classroom, I almost wish I had magic in my veins and could dull the brightness of my eyes.
The staring is more unsettling than I expected it would be.
Students trickle into the lecture hall slowly.
The air is still cold from the night, though the hearth in the room crackles with flames—perhaps some magic imbued into the very stone of the castle walls, for I’ve never seen anyone going from classroom to classroom, starting the fires.
I pull my journal from my briefcase and flip to today’s lesson plan.
As my fingers brush the pages, I feel that shift in my chest again, as if my heartbeat is being tugged gently in a different rhythm. A moment later, the classroom door opens, and I know it’s her without looking up.
I maintain focus on my lesson plan—or at least attempt to give that impression. Really, I’m thinking of our night together, of the way Maeve stood before me, hands on her hips, fire in her eyes. Her voice still echoes in my mind.
I want you to feed from me.
My fangs begin to produce venom, and I quickly swipe it away with my tongue and force my mind to focus on the present moment. More students have entered the classroom, and chairs shift and creak as the witches and warlocks take their seats.
Once I know my face is schooled into neutral passivity, I look up.
But my gaze goes directly to her.
Her hair hangs in straight sheets around her shoulders, and a chunky black scarf is wrapped around her neck, as if to ward off the cold in the air.
But I know better.
Beneath that scarf are two puncture holes, marks where my fangs sunk into her skin. They should be healing quickly—I made sure to draw my tongue over the bite, closing it and hastening the healing process. But I’m glad she’s being cautious.
Maeve glances up from her textbook and meets my eyes, and there’s a tug within my chest, just beneath my sternum, as if a thread connects me to her and is trying to draw us nearer to each other.
I clear my throat, ignoring the whispers going through the lecture hall in regard to my eyes, and begin class.
But even as I turn to the board and pick up my chalk, ready to launch into a lecture about noble bloodline amplification rituals, I feel that thread in my chest, tugging gently, trying to get my attention.
I ignore it.
But under my carefully constructed facade of calm, something unsettling is starting to awaken and stir.
Because this connection is different, something new. After 333 years of feeding, I’ve never felt something like this before.
And I can’t help but to be worried.
And to wonder what I’ve done . . .