Chapter 29 A Mother’s Madness
A MOTHER’S MADNESS
The corridor deepened into shadow as we reached the far end of the west wing. Here, the air felt heavier, older and steeped in the weight of centuries. The faint scent of aged oak and candle wax clung to the walls, and beneath it all lingered something darker, something distinctly him.
He stopped before a large oak door carved with intricate, swirling patterns. The designs almost seemed to move in the low light, twisting into shapes that reminded me of wings, shadows, and flames. He pushed it open without a word, and I followed him inside.
The room was vast. A cathedral of darkness.
Heavy velvet curtains hung from high arched windows, their deep crimson folds swallowing the moonlight before it could touch the stone floor.
Candles burned in wrought-iron sconces along the walls, their flames trembling against the slightest stir of air.
The faint aroma of smoke and leather filled my lungs, along with the delicious scent of Vas, which I eagerly breathed in.
A four-poster bed dominated the space, its dark canopy draped in silk that shimmered like liquid shadow.
Carved along its frame were symbols I didn’t recognize, one’s ancient, powerful and protective perhaps.
On the far side, a massive fireplace burned low, the embers casting a soft, blood-red glow across the black stone hearth.
Books filled towering shelves that reached toward the vaulted ceiling, mingling with relics and fragments of history.
Old maps, daggers and even a violin rested on its stand.
On one wall, a painting half-shrouded by a torn sheet showed a storm-lashed sea.
The whole room pulsed faintly with the same kind of energy that clung to him, one that was restless, alive and almost sentient.
“This will be safer,” Vas murmured, closing the door behind us with a quiet click that sounded far too final. His hand lingered on the latch, his jaw set tight, as though he was holding something at bay or locking it out.
Without another word, he led me through a smaller adjoining doorway, and I followed him into what could only be his bathroom.
It was nothing like I expected. The space was vast, all dark slate and black marble, sleek lines softened by the dim, golden glow of wall lamps.
The air carried the faint scent of cedar and something citrusy.
A rainfall shower hung over a sunken bath built into the stone floor, and mirrors framed in matte steel reflected the low light.
The room felt masculine, brooding, utterly him. Beautiful in a way that made my chest ache with its cold elegance. He moved with silent precision, crossing to one of the counters where a long stretch of slate supported a porcelain basin.
“Sit,” he said gently, gesturing to the space.
His voice was softer now, threaded with concern rather than command.
I hesitated only a second before he took matters into his own hands by gripping my waist and lifting me to the counter.
Then, once I was perched on the cool countertop, he turned the tap.
The sound of running water filled the silence, steady and grounding, before he wet a cloth and returned to me.
The touch of the damp fabric against my broken skin made me shiver. He worked carefully, wiping the blood from my arm and shoulder with slow, deliberate strokes. Each movement was gentle, his expression focused and almost pained, as though every trace of red he removed was a mark against his soul.
“I think we’ve been here before,” I murmured, my voice soft but unsteady. His hand paused. For a moment, his gaze lifted to mine, dark and unreadable.
“Yes,” he said quietly, resuming the gentle motion.
“But I would rather it not become a habit.” The corner of my mouth lifted despite the ache in my arm.
“Then I guess I'd better try to stay out of trouble.”
“You won’t,” he replied, a shadow of a smile ghosting over his lips as he wrung out the cloth.
“You attract it.” I huffed at that as he moved closer, so close I could feel the warmth radiating through his black shirt. The same one that clung to his body, stretching over the powerful lines of his shoulders, and was playing havoc with my fluttering stomach.
His fingers grazed my chin, tipping my face toward the light as he inspected me for further wounds. His thumb brushed the curve of my cheek, and the touch sent a flutter through my chest this time, one that had nothing to do with pain.
The intimacy of it, the scent of him, the way his darkness seemed too quiet in my presence, it felt almost unbearable. He didn’t speak again, but the silence between us carried everything unspoken. His guilt, my confusion, the strange, fragile bond that had somehow survived the chaos of the night.
And as he smoothed the last trace of blood from my skin, I realised something undeniable, I wasn’t afraid of him. Not even now.
His touch lingered longer than necessary, his thumb tracing a final line along my arm before he drew in a deep breath and stepped back. Something flickered in his expression, hesitation, maybe, or restraint, before his gaze locked on the shallow cut at my shoulder.
“This will scar if it’s left,” he said, his voice low, thoughtful.
“I can heal it… If you’ll let me.” I froze. The weight of his words hit me all at once, along with the sharp, vivid memory of Victor. Of the first time I’d felt vampire blood in my veins, how it had burned and soothed all at once.
First came pain, sharp and consuming and then came the ache. A terrible, beautiful heat that had nothing to do with wounds and everything to do with the man giving it.
My lips parted, a shaky breath escaping before I managed to nod.
“Alright,” I whispered.
His eyes searched mine, dark and uncertain for the briefest heartbeat, as though he wanted to be sure.
Then he gave a single nod and lifted his hand.
He didn’t hesitate. His teeth sank into the flesh of his palm, the motion swift and practiced.
Blood welled instantly, dark crimson, thick, shimmering faintly in the light.
But what caught me wasn’t the blood itself.
It was the way the darkness in him reacted to it.
It surged beneath his skin like something alive. Tendrils of shadow raced toward the wound, pulsing violently, desperate to close it before he could use it. He gritted his teeth, his breath hissing through them as he fought it back.
“Vas…” I started, but he moved before I could finish.
In one fluid motion, he closed the distance between us and pressed his bleeding palm, first against my arm and then my shoulder. Rubbing it over the cut before the darkness could claim it. The touch was searing, a jolt of ice and fire all at once.
I gasped, clutching at the counter’s edge as the sensation flooded through me. It was as if his power, that restless, cursed part of him had leapt beneath my skin, threading through my veins. For a moment, everything blurred… heat… breath… my pulse… him.
Then came the burn. Not of pain this time, but of something dangerously close to desire.
My eyes fluttered shut, my breath catching in my throat as warmth spiralled outward from where his blood touched me.
The wound knitted closed under his palm, the ache fading to nothing, replaced by a hum that sank deep into my bones.
When I opened my eyes again, he was watching me, his gaze dark, his breathing uneven. His blood still glistened faintly on his hand, already beginning to close as the darkness wound its way back beneath his skin.
He looked almost stricken.
“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” I shook my head, my voice barely a whisper.
“No… You didn’t. I trust you, Vas.”
Something changed in his face then, as his fingers brushed my cheek again, and this time I didn’t hesitate. I lifted my hand to his face, cupping his jaw, feeling the faint tremor beneath my touch.
“I know you won’t hurt me,” I said softly.
Whatever words he’d meant to speak vanished. His hand slid to the back of my neck, and then he was kissing me, not gently, not carefully, but with all the hunger he’d kept caged. It was heat and promise and darkness colliding into one breathless moment.
When he finally broke the kiss, his forehead rested against mine, his breath still unsteady.
“I love you, Nessa,” he whispered, the words rough and reverent.
“And I don’t know what I ever did in my dark life to deserve you.”
For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. The world narrowed to the warmth of his forehead pressed to mine, the steady rhythm of his breath mingling with mine, and the wild, trembling beat of my heart.
“I love you too,” I whispered against his lips, the words trembling but certain.
“God help me, Vas, I do.” His breath caught, a soft sound that was part disbelief and part relief, and for a second it felt as if the shadows themselves stilled around us. But then reality came crashing back in, cruel and insistent.
“But, we need to talk,” I said suddenly, my voice breaking the fragile calm. He drew back just enough to look at me, his features pained as he said softly,
“I know.”
Yet as the silence continued between us, I knew it would be left up to me to start. Which was why the words came spilling out, fast and unsteady, tumbling over each other as if I had been holding them back for too long.
“Your mother, I thought she was dead, and then she wasn’t, and she attacked me. And your brothers… What really happened between you? Where did you go? Did you meet them? And this,” I gestured between us, between my heart and his, still pressed close,
“What happens now? You can’t just keep me here forever, Vas, you can’t…” His hands came up suddenly, framing my face, gentle but firm.
“Slow down,” he murmured, his thumbs brushing the corners of my mouth as if to quiet the storm spilling from it. His touch was tender, his voice low and calm in a way that made my pulse trip.
“I know you have questions, and I will answer them.” I swallowed hard, the world still spinning too fast.