Chapter 10 #2
Still… it would not do to waste the cloth he had just acquired by tearing it, even if surrounded by a wealth of available goods, textile and otherwise, such as former ages could only dream of.
To unbutton, unfasten, unlace, unzip, took no time at all; to gather her into his arms even less.
For the short time before dusk he was able to hold a sleeping leman, his nose buried in her spice-fragrant, gloriously tumbled hair, pretending her stillness was acquiescence.
All too soon the sun sank below the earth’s rim.
He knew the moment she awakened, though she remained motionless for a few long breaths.
He let her bolt from the bed, tearing the sheet in her haste, and caught her next to the door leading to the suite’s antechamber, her nakedness pressed hard against flat slick modern wallpaper, her arms spread wide, slim frail wrists trapped in his palms.
Gentle enough, but inescapable. He lost himself in the sliding textures, his readiness against the hollow of her lower back, his chin atop her head, denying any movement of retreat, to the side—or forward, through the wall itself.
His leman froze, trembling hard, her scent deepening. After a moment, he could force his true teeth into their camouflage and drop a quiet murmur in her pretty, rosy ear. “Did you think you could escape me?”
He had practiced her accent all through the day, helped along by the vast stew and babble of dialect within the city’s cauldron. Perhaps she would find his speech more acceptable now.
At first he thought she had not heard, but she swallowed hard—pressed so tightly, even that slight movement was discernible. “It was…” Her breath hitched, charmingly, and the trembling intensified. “Worth a try.”
“I see.” He did not have to try to sound amused, and pressed his cheek against her hair, marveling at the texture.
She twitched, and his hands clamped her wrists afresh.
“Easy now, darlin’. In a little while we shall enjoy each other again, but first I must warn you of a few things.
Are you listening? Nod if you understand. ”
“Please…” A breathless, forlorn little plea. “Don’t.”
It is necessary you comprehend, my beauty.
He had thought much, during the day, upon how to condense the few requirements.
“If you attempt to escape, I will catch you, and I will take you until you are fully pleased. Any attempt at self-harm will end in the same manner. I am your sanguinant and your protector, we will go where you wish to and do as you prefer, and you are mine. Do you understand?”
“Don’t.” She gasped, shuddering in great gripping waves. The contrast of warm flesh and chill wall was not so intense, yet she shook as if with mortal ague. “Not this way. Not like this.”
“Do you not enjoy this position?” He shifted slightly, knowing he could lift her a small distance, pin her against the wall, and sink into her from behind. He tensed as if to do so, his grasp on her wrists shifting. “Pity, it seems rather—”
Whatever he expected it was not sudden, complete limpness, and a high thin sound from a constricted throat. He had heard its like before, though he could not remember just when, and cold dread sawed across the pleasure of holding her so closely.
For the sound she made was the despairing whimper of a fledgling moments before the break, sustaining irreversible physical and psychological damage.
Some who created progeny in the Blood deliberately provoked such distress for their own amusement, one more cruel game to stave off calcification.
He did not think the strategy wise or worthwhile, not least because callousness was just as much a trap as apathy.
How much more terrible to break a leman, then? To mar a creature so exquisite, so very finely made, would be a greater sin than any he had ever committed, remembered or forgotten.
She trembled yet more as he drew her from the wall, her muscles quivering at the edge of seizure-lock.
His true-teeth sliced at his own wrist as his knees folded, blood welling up to quiver with surface tension, refusing to leave the opened flesh; sanguinant and leman spilled to the floor in a tangle of limbs, and he pressed the cut against her mouth.
A fledgling in such dire anguish required careful care; she must feed.
More importantly, she must be calmed, soothed so far as possible.
Even a leman driven past sanity was priceless, to be protected and assiduously nursed.
Severe mental unrest could cause physical degradation, triggering a killing catatonia—a superbly sensitive instrument, treated too harshly, reduced to splinters.
He would die with her, of course, but that was beside the point. To lose such a prize through incompetence, ill treatment, that was another unholy thing. Her innocent shameless flanks filled his lap, her satin weight too cold in his arms, her lovely head lolling on its slender stem.
“Feed,” he whispered, barely aware he spoke in a language she could not possibly know. How long since the tongue of Elam had been uttered by a living mouth? It did not matter. “O my beloved, the cup is at your lips; merely drink, and all shall be well.”
I will make it well. I am sorry, sorry, sorry.
Sorrow was useless. He must keep her, and if it took every last drop in his veins, he would give gladly, thankful for the opportunity.