Chapter 3 #2
The nickname slides through me like silk and shadow combined, triggering responses that have nothing to do with hunger and everything to do with the man who speaks it.
My vampire instincts war with something older, something that recognizes this voice as more important than feeding, this presence as more vital than blood.
"That's enough."
The command carries weight that makes my very soul pay attention.
I want to disobey.
Everything in me screams to continue drinking, to take more, to consume until there's nothing left and the hunger finally—finally—stops demanding. But that voice. That darkness-wrapped, authority-laden, impossibly compelling voice...
My fangs retract.
The withdrawal is reluctant, almost painful, but the shadow at my throat tightens just enough to remind me who holds the leash I've apparently agreed to wear. My mouth releases Atticus's wrist with a soft, wet sound that makes me want to lunge back immediately.
But Cassius told me to stop.
And apparently, that matters more than survival.
My eyes open—I hadn't realized they'd closed—and find his immediately.
Silver shot through with shadow, carrying depths that speak of centuries of darkness and the particular patience of someone who has learned to wait for what he wants. They're flowing with power that makes the air around us thick, heavy with magic that exists solely because he exists.
The tendril at my throat tilts my chin upward.
The movement is deliberate, positioning me so I have no choice but to look up at him despite being cradled in his arms in some position I can't quite identify. I'm half in his lap, half draped across him, arranged by shadow and will into a configuration that speaks of possession more than comfort.
"Mine," I hiss.
The word escapes before I can consider whether it's appropriate, vampiric possessiveness bleeding through whatever rational thought I've managed to rebuild.
My voice sounds rough, drunk on blood and proximity and the particular madness of waking from near-death to find myself in a darkness prince's arms.
He smirks.
The expression transforms his face from beautiful to devastating, smugness and challenge and something that might be pride all mixed together into something that makes my blood-warmed body respond in ways entirely unrelated to feeding.
His finger rises to my face.
The touch is deliberate—one digit pressing against my bottom lip, pulling slightly, revealing the blood that still stains my mouth with evidence of what I've just done. The gesture is obscene in its intimacy, claiming without asking, touching without permission.
"I know I'm yours," he says, and the casual acceptance of my possessive declaration makes something in my chest burn. "But if you mean Atticus, we have a tier system going on here, Little Mouse."
Tier system.
The words should make sense, but my blood-drunk brain refuses to process their meaning.
Everything feels fuzzy around the edges, too saturated with sensation to parse complex concepts.
I'm trying to understand what he means, trying to connect the dots between his smirk and his words and the particular way his shadows continue to caress my skin—
My confusion must show on my face.
His smirk softens into something almost tender, an expression I've rarely seen from the Prince of Duskwalkers. He leans closer, reducing the distance between us until his breath mingles with mine, until all I can see is the shifting silver of his eyes.
"Gwenievere," he murmurs, voice dropping to something intimate, private, meant for me alone despite whatever audience we apparently have. "Do you know who you are?"
Do I know who I am?
The question lands strangely. I am... I am someone. The familiarity is there, lurking beneath the fog of blood-drunkenness and fever-fatigue. I know this face above me. I know these shadows surrounding me. I know the weight of bonds pulsing at my neck, wrist, and chest—
But do I know who I am?
The answer feels important, vital, but my mind refuses to produce it clearly. Everything keeps shifting, thoughts sliding away before I can grasp them, identity feeling more like a suggestion than certainty.
I do know one thing, though.
Those lips look appetizing.
The thought arrives with the particular clarity of desires too strong to be clouded by confusion. Whatever else I might have forgotten, my body remembers exactly what it wants—and right now, it wants to taste the man asking me questions I can't answer.
Bite them, something whispers. Claim them. Make them yours.
"And she's totally going to either bite you or fuck you. Can't tell."
Zeke's observation floats through the space, delivered with the particular casualness of someone stating obvious truth rather than making commentary. His voice carries feline amusement, the satisfaction of a cat watching events unfold exactly as predicted.
Both options sound appetizing.
The thought crystallizes with sudden clarity, cutting through the fog like a blade. Bite or fuck. Claim or consume. Either would satisfy the burning need currently making my skin feel too tight for my body.
But the idea of this man being mine—
Something shifts in my core. A heat that has nothing to do with fever, spreading from some central point to encompass my entire being.
The sensation is overwhelming enough to make rational thought evaporate entirely, leaving only instinct and need and the absolute certainty that I want this shadow-wrapped prince beneath me now.
I move before I consciously decide to.
My body surges upward, using strength I shouldn't possess given my current state, and suddenly our positions are reversed.
I tackle Cassius with force that should be impossible for someone who was barely conscious moments ago, momentum carrying us both until he's on his back and I'm straddling his chest, pinning him with weight that shouldn't be enough but somehow is.
Mine.
The word pulses through me like a heartbeat as I claim his mouth.
The kiss is nothing like gentle.
This is possession given physical form—my lips crashing against his with desperation and demand, tongue sweeping into his mouth without asking permission because permission is for people who haven't already decided they're taking what they want.
I taste him with the same hunger I felt for blood moments ago, consuming his breath, his control, his smug certainty that he's the one in charge here.
He doesn't push me off.
Gods, he doesn't push me off.
Instead, his hands rise to my hips, gripping with strength that will definitely leave bruises, pulling me tighter against him as if I'm not already as close as physics allows.
His shadows surge around us both—not restraining but encouraging, darkness wrapping us in cocoon that blocks out everything else.
I moan into his mouth.
The sound is pure possessiveness, pure need, pure declaration that this man is mine and I will destroy anything that tries to suggest otherwise.
My teeth catch his bottom lip—harder than intended, maybe not entirely accidental—and the taste of his blood mixing with the kiss makes something feral and satisfied purr in my chest.
Air becomes necessary.
The biological need for oxygen finally overrides the psychological need to consume, and I break the kiss with a gasp that feels like surrender. My eyes—wild, burning with power I can feel but don't fully understand—lock onto his face beneath me.
His expression would be irritating if it wasn't so goddamn attractive.
The fucker is smirking.
As if he hadn't just been kissed within an inch of his life. As if there isn't a bead of blood forming where I bit his lip. As if being pinned by a blood-drunk hybrid queen is exactly what he expected to happen and he's merely pleased that his predictions proved accurate.
"Guess that worked," Zeke observes from somewhere beyond our shadow cocoon. "But if you two are going to fuck, I'm gonna go stretch."
Atticus groans—the sound carrying exhaustion and something that might be jealousy. "Zeke, at least try to seem fucking bothered by that display of powerplay, or else I feel like the horny vampire in the room."
"More so because she bit you," Mortimer's voice joins, carrying the particular dryness of scholarly observation. "And that triggers sexual appetite."
The voices are pulling me back toward awareness.
Each one carries familiarity that's slowly connecting to names and faces and relationships I should remember clearly but are still sorting themselves through the fog in my brain.
I'm starting to recognize everything—the people around me, the situation I'm apparently in, the fact that I just tackled and kissed one of my bond mates like some kind of feral creature—
Wait.
What the fuck happened?
I'm trying to remember, trying to piece together how I got from wherever I was to here, straddling Cassius on what appears to be some kind of floor while multiple people watch and comment on my behavior—
Cassius distracts me.
His hand rises to cup my cheek with tenderness that contradicts the smirk still playing on his lips. His touch is cool against skin that's finally starting to lose its fever-heat, grounding in ways that help my scattered thoughts begin to organize.
His tongue trails across my bottom lip.
The sensation makes me shiver, sending sparks down my spine that have nothing to do with temperature. He cleans away the blood still staining my mouth with deliberate slowness, tasting what remains of Atticus and himself combined, claiming evidence of my feeding as if it's his right.
"Little Mouse."
The nickname settles over me like a blanket.
I stare at him for a full minute, awareness slowly piecing itself together. The silver eyes watching me with patient expectation. The shadows still coiling around us both. The particular sensation of rightness that comes from being exactly where I'm supposed to be.
"Cassius?"