Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Charlotte
The Aerie
Charlotte’s Bedroom
A bang woke Charlotte.
Or that could have been the pounding in her head.
No. Someone was definitely pounding on the door.
She bolted upright in the bed, blanket clutched to her chest as the world momentarily spun. She had fallen asleep easily next to Draven. Now she was alone because headaches did not count as company.
The fact that she had slept so soundly had more to do with exhaustion than the companion in her bed. And she had been dosed with wormwood and who knows what else. Her deep sleep had absolutely nothing to do with how comfortable she felt next to Draven. He was a predator who drank human blood. No one could sleep next to that.
Except she had and now she was alone.
He told her he did not sleep and that he would leave, yet it felt like being abandoned. Try as she might to convince herself that she was not abandoned and alone the morning after her wedding, she failed. The situation was pitiful, and she loathed feeling that way.
The events of the last few days—especially that night—caught up with her. Now, her mind felt crowded. The headache did not help.
She longed for the calm of home, the murmur of her father muttering as he read, and the street sounds of the village that drifted in through open windows. All she had was the howl of the wind.
Charlotte sat still, listening. Had she dreamed the noise? Did wormwood cause hallucinations? She was almost certain it did not. Her head throbbed, making it difficult to concentrate, and her stomach felt unsettled.
There. Another bang, like fists pounding on a door. Voices rose in the corridor.
She reached for her spectacles on the bedside table, knocking over a glass of water. The glass hit the floor, shattering.
“Blast it,” Charlotte muttered, fumbling in the dark to light a candle.
She picked up all the broken fragments she could find in the flickering light. A jagged piece sliced her thumb. Hissing in pain, she hurried across the cold floor to the bathing chamber to procure a washing cloth to wrap around her thumb. She needed a bandage, but this would do until the bleeding stopped.
She shivered, cold and very much nude except for the sagging stockings.
Voices in the corridor got louder.
Charlotte grabbed her robe and slippers before hurrying to the sitting room. The air was bracing. The fire had long since died.
The corridor wasn’t much better.
“What’s going on?” she asked, drawing the robe tighter around her.
Electric lights flickered down the corridor, creating dim pockets of light.
Stringer strode toward her. “Are you hurt?”
She looked down. Blood soaked through the washcloth. “I cut my thumb on some broken glass. I need a clean bandage and antiseptic if you have it.”
“I’ll send up supplies. For now, return to your room.”
“Something’s happened,” she said.
“It is nothing to concern yourself with. The situation is under control.” He held out his arms like he was attempting to block her view.
A roar echoed down the stone corridor.
Charlotte felt it rattle in her soul. It was the sound of deep pain. Worse, it was familiar. She heard it on her wedding day, right before her new husband tried to tear her throat out. But there couldn’t be another beast here. Draven specifically said they felt uncomfortable in another monster’s territory. The only beast anywhere in proximity was Miles and he left hours ago…
She watched her friends exit the courtyard toward the Black Gate, which was an elaborate trap.
What if Miles never left? Yes, that was the only explanation.
“Miles? Miles!” She tried to push past Stringer, but the man grabbed her by the shoulders.
“That is not your friend.”
“He’s hurt. What are you doing to him?”
Stringer steered her back to her room. “The only one hurt is you. Lord Draven will have my head if anything else happens to you, so please stay in your room, for your safety.”
Voices rose in alarm, shouting orders. There was a thump, like metal striking a body, and another roar.
“It is Miles. Why is he being held? Draven said he could leave,” she said, trying to shake off his grip.
“I’m sorry. I don’t have time to answer your questions. Just…please stay out of the way,” Stringer said. He paused, his hand on the door. “Do not open this door, no matter what you hear.”
The door closed, followed by the unmistakable sound of a lock turning.
All the warmth drained from Charlotte’s body. She grabbed the handle and tugged fruitlessly. “Unlock this door.”
“This is for your safety,” came the muffled reply.
Well, that wasn’t ominous and alarming.
Draven
Blood and wormwood.
Charlotte’s blood.
The scent clouded his mind. His fangs descended, thirsty and aching to bite. He needed to focus on containing the chaos caused by the escaped prisoner, but that alluring scent mingled with wormwood drove him straight to Charlotte’s door. He had left his toothsome bunny alone, convinced she’d be safe in her bed, despite knowing that she had been dosed with poison earlier that day, and now she bled.
“Sir, the normal sedatives are not working.” Stringer trotted up to his side.
Draven yanked his hand away. He had responsibilities. The prisoner first. Then his bride.
“Did you increase the dosage?” he asked.
“We administered the standard amount.”
“We’re approaching the winter solstice. You know this,” Draven grumbled. “You are not usually so incompetent.”
Something less-than-flattering flashed across Stringer’s face as he stuttered out an apology. Annoyance? Contrition? Draven did not care. He wanted the situation resolved. Now.
He did what was required. It did not take long. That was all the thought he would give the matter.
He knocked before unlocking the door and stepping inside.
A fire crackled in the grate, casting a warm glow on the woman sitting in a nearby chair. She wore a silk robe, a delicate pink that caught the orange of the firelight.
“Is this how you treat guests? Promise them freedom and then lock them away?” Charlotte asked, her tone angry. She had been so warm and genial all evening, and even more so when they were alone. Technically, the next morning, the flush of excitement had no doubt worn away and she had time to regret her actions. Now fury heightened the color in her cheeks and brightened her eyes. He wouldn’t apologize for finding that attractive.
His gaze honed in on her throat. Not but hours ago, he had lavished his attention there, not caring if he left a bruise or other discoloration. Now he quite wanted to see his mark on her.
Charlotte raised a hand to her neck in defense. In such a position, he could see the cloth that had been crudely wrapped around her thumb.
Silence stretched out between them, filled with the crackling of the fire.
“You’re injured,” he finally said, his voice distorted from his descending fangs.
“I broke a glass. It’s stopped bleeding.”
Yes. The aroma of the dried blood under the makeshift bandage tantalized him.
“It must be cleaned properly. Remain seated,” he said.
There was a first aid kit in the bathroom. Inside, he discovered that several of the supplies were missing. Used and never replaced? Or stolen? With a critical gaze, he inspected the room. He tested the taps, pleased to discover that the hot water was hot. His instructions were to keep the guest suite fully outfitted, but people could be greedy creatures. Of course, he should never ascribe to greed what could be simple laziness. Why restock the first aid kit if no one used the room? Who would know?
An escaped beast and missing supplies. His house was in disarray.
When he returned, Charlotte had tucked her feet under herself in the chair. He kneeled at her feet, angling himself so as not to block the warmth of the fire.
With the kit opened, he gestured for her hand.
She thrust it out, turning her head to avoid looking.
He unwrapped her thumb. The cut was an angry red.
“I did not take you for the squeamish type,” he said.
“I’m not,” she replied instantly. “It hurts worse if I look at it.”
“There is some science to that,” he said, gently cleaning the area with a damp cloth. “There are a few factors at play. If you are observing an injury, you have likely stimulated the surrounding nerves by moving. Observing the injury can also activate pain receptors in the brain. The hands also have a high number of nerve endings, compounding the problem.”
She remained silent, watching as he applied a salve.
“I do not believe the wound will require stitches,” he said.
“You don’t have some relic from Old Earth that can fuse my flesh back together?”
“No,” he said, his tone harsher than he intended. “That device has not worked in a century. Even when it was operational, I would not trust it. Too much could go wrong, and then you would be without a thumb.”
She paled, her eyes wide. To her credit, she did not snatch her hand from his grip and scramble away. She remained calm, watching as he applied a clean bandage.
He found himself reluctant to let go of her hand. The skin was soft and warm. He brushed his thumb over her wrist. Her pulse fluttered. The skin was delicate there, so easy to puncture and…
“Thank you,” she said, pulling away to cradle her hand against her chest. “What happened out there tonight?”
“Do not worry yourself. The situation is under control.”
“Who was it? Don’t try to tell me it was not a beast. I know what I heard. Was it Miles?”
“No,” he said, offering no further explanation.
She took a deep breath and released it slowly. “Why was my door locked?”
“A temporary measure for your safety.” Draven rose to his feet. He towered over her.
Charlotte lifted her chin, refusing to be intimidated. “Am I to be treated like a prisoner, locked in my room every night?”
“You were bleeding, and you filled the corridor with the scent of your warm blood.”
“That was not my intention. There were shouts in the corridor.”
“All the more reason to be confined to your room,” he said, his voice chilled. He took a moment to make sure he had her full attention. “Whether you meant it or not, you invited every hungry monster to find you.”
The irresistible aroma lured him in, after all.
* * *
“You might as well say what’s on your mind,” Draven said.
His second-in-command dipped his head. “Sir, I have a concern.”
Draven leveled a cold look at Stringer. The man wasted his time with feigned deference.
“Madame Charlotte—”
“Lady Charlotte,” Draven corrected.
Stringer nodded. “Apologies. Lady Charlotte did not see the beast, but she is convinced it was her, umm, associate.”
“She expressed that concern to me. I informed her it was not.” That should be the end of the matter.
“I doubt she will take your word for it.”
“Most likely. She will be confined until she accepts the fact that I am not holding her associate captive.” Yes, he heard the irony. No, he did not care. It was for her safety.
Stringer nodded. “She would be more compliant if you offered proof that the beast is not being held. They could not have gotten far in the snow. I can send a team—”
Draven raised a hand to silence him. A team would not be good enough. He wanted to assure Charlotte that he himself had spoken to the beast. No one else would suffice. “We leave at dawn.”