Chapter Twenty-Three • Aftercare • Damien
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About twenty minutes later, I help Lillith out of the shower, enjoying the way her silvery hair clings to the pale slope of her spine while I wrap her both in my arms and one of her fluffy towels.
Before long I’m making an attempt at braiding her hair for her as she clumsily brushes my teeth, since my arms are otherwise occupied.
She’s laughing, and I try to clock this moment in my mind for later—the strange chaos and domesticity of it that feels just...
perfect. She laughs as I produce my tongue for her to scrub, and I continue my lousy plaiting of her hair.
“You’re going to spit on me!” she squeals.
“Lillith, baby. I jus’ had my thoungue all ober your clith,” I say through the foam. “I think you can hanthol a lithle toothpathe.”
She collapses against my chest in another fit of giggles, allowing me to lean forward to spit into the sink as I cradle her close. Her braid completely falls out, regardless of my attempts to secure it.
I like to make my subs laugh after an intense scene.
I like to bring levity back into the room after I get sadistic and mean.
All things considered, I let Lillith off pretty easy.
I’ve doled out much worse punishments, but after making her cry with the degradation, I didn’t want to push her too hard.
Especially not without doing some more thorough negotiations.
Honestly, the whole thing was pretty risky.
I can see that now I’m out of the haze of my own horniness.
I’ll have to really check in during the next few days to make sure she’s doing alright—that I didn’t go too heavy on the disciplinary tone of the scene and that she doesn’t think she’s actually causing problems between us.
I come back to focusing on her when she wipes at my mouth with a clean washcloth. I smile down at her, and she returns the expression. She reaches up with a tentative fingertip and touches one of my sharpened teeth. “I really love these,” she says.
“Feels kind of embarrassing to have them now I know you fraternize with actual vampires,” I say.
She shakes her head. “No, it’s different. Vampire canines are actually edged—like tiny blades. Makes for an easier puncture of the skin. When you bite me, it feels more like—deep. More like bruising.”
“Yeah? That something you enjoy?”
She nods a bit sheepishly. “I mean—yes—uhm...”
I shake my head. “You don’t have to do that when we’re outside a scene, baby,” I say.
“Clear communication is really important to me during power exchange, and allowing you to communicate non-verbally could lead to you clamming up when you actually need to use a safe word. It’s just about building good habits. ”
I cup her jaw in my hand, and she leans into it. “I love your sheepish little nods otherwise. I love that you want to be marked up and punished by me, but are too embarrassed to say it out loud.”
She groans and hides her face in my chest. I chuckle. “Case in point,” I say.
“It really was... I mean, that was better than anything I’ve ever done,” she admits to my sternum.
“Really? Better than the fae guy? Better than ‘ecstatic tantric sex’?”
“So much better,” she says, and I have resist the urge to puff up my chest with stupid macho pride. Because fuck yeah and fuck you Bastion Babblebrook and Random Fae Stranger.
“So. When are you going to magically collar me?” I tease.
“Don’t say it like that,” she says, scowling up at me. “I’m not marking you as my territory.”
“You totally are. And I’m totally game for it.”
“Some Dom you are,” she says as she unwinds her arms from my middle.
I crush her against me, not letting her go, my hands braced around her ribcage. “You may mark me, sweetheart, but deep down you’ll still know that when it comes to our private moments, you’re entirely mine. Don’t you?”
Her face immediately goes scarlet, then she folds against me again. “Fuck, Damien.”
I laugh, scooping her hair from behind her over her shoulder, tugging on the end of it gently. “Sorry, couldn’t help myself,” I say. “I mean, you did provoke me.”
“I did,” she admits. “Can I put clothes on?”
“Mnnn, I suppose I can allow it,” I tease, kissing her forehead. “Where do you want to do your magic collaring? In the living room? The bed?”
“Living room,” she says as she leaves the bathroom. I watch her hips sway beneath her towel and feel desire warm up my chest all over again. Damn. I can’t believe I get to call her my girlfriend. This is the best thing that could possibly happen.
I make a point of improving our usual little palette of blankets and pillows on the floor, starting up a fire because it’s a little chilly tonight and I want my girl to be comfortable and cozy while she collars me.
I smile to myself, amused by my own stupid jokes.
I sit down and Gloam materializes from somewhere in the apartment, butting her head into my hand and demanding pets.
I pick her up and curl her into a little shrimp shape before nuzzling my forehead against hers.
She purrs loudly, and I pepper her head with kisses that get her all wound up, her pupils going wide as saucers before she chirps and zooms off into the kitchen.
I snort a laugh just as Lillith returns, wearing an oversized sweatshirt that goes down to about her mid-thigh.
It’s tie-dyed black and gray with screen printing on the front and down the sleeves with a bunch of cute witchy designs—moons and moths and Tarot cards.
She carries a small cigar box that looks like it’s about fifty years old. She sits down across from me, her legs folded under her as she sets the box down between us. She’s piled her hair on top of her head in a messy bun that makes me just want to make it even more messy, but I stop myself.
She worries her lower lip with her teeth before she finally opens the box and starts taking out a collection of tools.
There’s an old silk handkerchief, yellowed with age.
A selenite slab. A pocket knife. A piece of white ribbon.
A small bowl inlaid with abalone shell and copper and some kind of black stone.
She sets it all out in a neat little line, taking her time.
I realize something. after she adjusts the ribbon for the third time.
“Are you stalling?” I ask.
“I—M-maybe,” she mumbles. “I’m just... not looking forward to...” she sighs. “You’re going to make so much fun of me.”
“Is it blood stuff?” I ask.
She groans, dropping her head back. “It’s totally blood stuff,” she whines.
I laugh warmly and shake my head. “So you do—”
“Don’t say it.”
“—have a blood kink.”
“It’s not sexual. It’s romantic,” she says. “Sort of.”
“Sort of. As romantic as vampires brainwashing their favorite meal tickets can be,” I tease. “Should I let you bite my neck, too?”
“I’m going to kill you,” she gripes. “If you keep this up, we’re not gonna go tomorrow.”
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. Tell me what we’re going to do. I promise to behave.”
She exhales and nods. “So, this is sort of like a miniature version of a handfasting. When a vampire does it, they do actually drink the blood of their thrall and their thrall drinks theirs, but for our needs, this is a more energetic bond. It’s less about having each other’s blood in our systems and more about our essences being wound together.
It’s not... uhm... as serious as a handfasting—”
“Handfasting?”
Her skin flushes scarlet, but she simply continues. “With this, anyone we encounter in The Buried City will see a little refraction in your aura that looks like mine—like a crystal catching the light in just the right way.”
“Wow,” I say. “Can you see what color my aura is?”
She chuckles. “It doesn’t work like that,” she says.
“A misconception, really. An aura is constantly shifting, and it’s not something you can see at all times.
It’s something you have to kind of click into.
And it’s something you inherit from your ancestors.
It shifts and grows the stronger and longer that bloodline is. ”
“I see,” I say. “So, by doing this, you give me a little slice of your aura.”
“And I take a little slice of yours,” she says, with a smile that is just... achingly sweet. “But the Nightingale name does mean something down there. So, no one will fuck with you.”
“Nice,” I say. “So, what do we do?”
“I’ll show you,” she says. “And... if you end up not wanting to do this, you’re allowed to tell me, okay?”
“Enthusiastic consent,” I tease.
She rolls her eyes but nods anyway. “Right,” she says.
She opens the pocketknife. The blade has been sharpened so many times that it’s practically the thickness of paper. With unnerving nonchalance, she slices a deep gash in the palm of her hand. Her flesh parts and blood spills out from her hand, dark and thick as boysenberry syrup.
“Lillith, that’s too deep.” I say, grasping her wrist.
“It has to be—at least on my end. I can heal wounds, Damien. This is a devotional discomfort, to make sure it sticks.” She meets my eyes as her blood spills over the edge of her palms and into the small bowl waiting for tribute.
Blood doesn’t scare me. It doesn’t make me feel queasy or uncomfortable—comes with the job when you’re a paramedic.
What bothers me is that the wound on Lillith’s hand is deep enough that if it were clean, I’m almost certain it would be down to the bone.
What about her seizures? Didn’t she say pain was a trigger?
Her face does look a little pale, as if on cue. I worry that she might go into another episode, but she just closes her eyes and breathes deeply. She whispers something—something so quiet I can’t make out the words. Either that or it’s in some other language.
The bowl rapidly fills with her blood. I can smell the iron in the air. She opens her eyes again, reaches her slashed hand toward me, and smiles. “I won’t need as much of yours, just a little nick on your finger. Alright?”
Fuck, I don’t care. I grasp her hand examining the wound. “Lillith, this needs stitches,” I say.
She shakes her head. “I’ll heal it when we’re done,” she says.
“I don’t understand why you think this is fine,” I say, getting angry now.
“I can heal it, Damien. The pain is an act of devotion. The sooner we finish this, the sooner I can seal it back up and be out of pain.”
I grimace; I want to fix it for her. Immediately.
“Is it about sharing the blade?” she asks. “If you’re worried about the cross contamination, I can get another blade.”
Maybe I should worry about that, but I’m not worried about it at all. She cleans the blade off on the old handkerchief as I watch. I still hold her hand and realize she’s not going to let me do anything to help in this horrifying situation.
“The knife is fine,” I say curtly. “Do it. Hurry up so you can heal yourself. Please.”
She smiles understandingly and nods. “I know it’s awful. I’m sorry to put you through it. We’ll be done before you know it.”
She shifts her hand under mine and holds my index finger with irritating gentleness. She slices into my fingertip, and I feel... I feel nothing. I don’t understand it at first, but then I do. Somehow, I know it. Somehow, I know she’s taken my pain as her own.
Her own index finger twitches and trembles as she turns my finger over the bowl and lets a few small drops join the near half-pint she’s spilled into it. She releases my hand and then picks up the white ribbon with her uninjured hand and carefully sinks it into the bowl of our combined blood.
I watch as the ribbon sinks into the viscous liquid, then my brow furrows at the fabric seems to completely devour the blood. Every spare drop of it. When the process is done, the ribbon is a deep red.
She picks up the ribbon and holds it up. “Grab the other end? Help me tie it around our pinkies?”
I want to be charmed by it, but I’m too concerned about how dark her beauty mark is looking on her pallid complexion.
I grab the other end of the ribbon. She links her pinky with mine, as if we’re making a pinky promise.
She’s focused as we tie the ribbon around our joined fingers.
She whispers a quiet, “Make a bow,” with a smile and I nod, obeying her instructions.
As soon as the knot is tied, the ribbon warms and brightens to an incredibly lurid shade of red—so red it’s practically luminescent.
No, it is luminescent. It glows and then becomes a streak of light that flows around our joined hands, then around the back of Lillith’s neck, and the back of mine before settling in a band around my wrist. It orbits my arm like the rings of Saturn before it tightens and between one blink and the next, it becomes...
it becomes a tattoo. Bright and red, a simple band around my wrist.
I blink at it and she gives me a tight-lipped smile as she takes her hand back, clasping it against her chest. “I can glamour that to hide it, if you’d like,” she says, her brow faintly dewy with sweat.
“After you just carved a bone-deep gash in your hand to create it? How about absolutely-the-fuck-not?” I say. “Let me see your hand.”
“Damien, I’m fine,” she says. “It’s already on the mend.”
“Let. Me. See,” I demand, using my Dom voice. Brooking no argument.
She purses her lips and lets out a little breath, giving me her hand. I take it and inspect it. I press gently into her palm to check the wound and... and...
And she’s right. The more I test it, the more the blood dries to a sticky coating on her hand. She huffs. “It’s already sealed up. It will look a little pink for a couple of days, and the skin will be a bit tender. But no stitches required.”
I meet her eyes, feeling oddly heartbroken.
She smiles sadly. “Changing your mind about being my boyfriend yet?” she asks.
I shake my head. “No, of course not,” I say. “I just... God, I feel so fucking guilty for cracking jokes about that. It was... violent.”
“The powerful magic often is,” she says a little tiredly.
There’s a bit of knowing sadness in her expression that I can’t quite put my finger on.
“But worth it. I want you to be protected. I could have done a less powerful mark, but I want everyone to know how much I care about you. I want you to know how much I care about you.”
“You didn’t have to split your hand open to prove that to me,” I say.
“And, yet, I would. Every time,” she says with a sweet smile.
I frown, cupping her face with my hand, realizing all at once that the slice on my finger is healed too. I brush a thumb on her still-pale cheekbone. “I’m going to go grab something to clean us up, and then I’m feeding you copious amounts of ice cream, you absolute madwoman.”
She chuckles and nods. “Honestly, that sounds lovely.”
I spend the rest of the night taking care of her until she falls asleep with my fingers brushing through her hair. And I wonder how much more her magic has taken from her in the name of keeping her loved ones safe.
I don’t want her to ever do it for me. Not ever again.