Jealousy
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
As I woke, my cheek rested against softness.
I nestled against the comfort I lay upon, which was a stark difference to each other time I had woken.
I sluggishly blinked, hugging the thick fur.
A smile tipped the corner of my lips. Lord Draven must have given it to me after I had fallen into my slumber.
I could not control my smile or the way my thoughts immediately turned to the portrait drawn so carefully it seemed to have been caught in motion.
Perhaps there was kindness in Lord Draven—
A moan ripped through the softness bubbling in my belly, like a blade slicing. The sound was familiar.
I clenched my hands. Lord Draven was feeding on someone.
The woman let out a soft whimper.
My stomach flipped over.
Would I rise and find him taking her the way the man had taken the woman at the brothel?
A sensation swelled in me. Odd and suffocating. It had been so long since I felt anything akin to it. The last I had felt anything like this was as a child, watching Miriam receive love from her parents.
Another moan wrenched me from my thoughts.
I could not simply listen any longer. I pushed up and peeked over the edge of the bed. He faced me as his mouth remained fastened to her neck. I ducked.
Coward.
I slowly pushed up, clenching my fingers into the fur beneath me.
A feeder lay in his arms. Different from the first time.
She sat on the bed, her back to me, as he leaned over her, his face buried against her throat.
Ringlets crowned her head, artfully pinned.
She was no less passionate than the last feeder.
Her hips twisted and writhed. Now I understood what that sensation was.
I understood it better than I wanted to.
She dug her fingers into his thigh, bunching the fabric of the robe.
He watched me from over her shoulder. I could not look away as he fed, as the woman’s cries sharpened.
That swell of something I refused to acknowledge gripped me. I curled my fingers into my palm, but the sting did nothing to sate the urge to grab the feeder by the hair. She ran her hand higher on his thigh, and I could not contain my gasp.
His eyebrows twitched upward, and humor invaded those eerie eyes.
That made me angrier.
He lifted from her neck. Blue blood dripped from the corner of his lips. The woman remained trembling against him.
I stiffened my jaw and lowered back to my spot beside the bed, tugging my knees to my chest. None of what was happening inside me made sense. It continued in a swirl until I was nauseated.
“Redblood,” Lord Draven’s voice cracked through my discomfort.
My limbs jerked as if he’d pulled a string. I had to speak before he became angry.
“Yes, my lord?”
I remained as still as possible.
“Prepare a bath for me.”
“Yes, my lord.” He didn’t say anything more, and I pushed up to my feet, keeping my head down as I shoved my feet into the slippers.
After translating deep into the moonlight, exhaustion had dragged me straight to sleep, and he hadn’t partaken in his almost ritualistic bathing. I could appreciate a man who liked to remain clean.
A man?
“I am happy to be of service, my lord,” the feeder’s voice grated on my ears. My steps faltered. I took the opportunity to peer at her as I disappeared into the bathing chamber.
That feeder resembled me. Her skin was a bronze shade marking her as someone from Southern Sycarious and so did her thick dark hair.
No, that was simply by chance. What was I thinking? That he had selected her especially for resembling me?
I hurried to the tub and turned the spout.
Each step of preparing the bathing chamber felt as if I bore weights. Would she enter to replace my spot aiding Lord Draven?
I began to fold the little cloth on the table to do something with my hands.
So be it.
The corner of the folded cloth was no good. I whipped it open and started again, carefully dividing it in half.
I should be glad to no longer bathe his long body, or to no longer see how his member reacted to each ministration. Or how the soft sounds he made—
“Has the rag offended you in some way?”
I yelped and whirled. Lord Draven stood an arm’s distance away, that blasted smirk on his face.
“No, my lord.”
Giving the barest incline of my head, I stepped aside and fixed my gaze on the lip of the tub so I would not watch him. It cost me: I could not see the expression that accompanied his little exhale.
Droplets splashed as he settled into the steaming bathing tub.
Approaching, I took the fresh, unused bar of soap in one hand and the cloth in the other.
With steady, impersonal movements, I dipped both into the edge of the water to moisten them.
A few scrubs against my palm had it lathered.
Stepping behind Lord Draven, I began to wash his shoulders up to the base of his scalp without touching his hair since I had washed it during his last bath.
Each glide across his back left a pink flush. I put all the odd, building sensation in my belly into scrubbing. The pale flesh turned a harsher red.
The feeder’s moans echoed in my ears. As I moved down his arm with a more aggressive tug, my nail scored against his bicep. A thin line of onyx welled.
Black blood? The blood of the Saints . . .
A black pearl crept down his arm. The thin line healed, knitting together.
He chuckled, and I whipped my head to look at him. He studied my face, his uncanny attention sharpening, almost maniacal.
“Mortals and their pitiful jealousies,” he mused. “How quaint.” His smirk took on a sharp edge. I desperately wanted to dunk his head under the water, but that would certainly end badly for me.
I am jealous?
Heat spread up my neck.
No, that could not be, because if so, it meant my judgment was clouded. Emotions would only muddle my goals.
I straightened and lifted my chin.
“My lord?” I gripped the soap and cloth hard. “Why ever would I be jealous?”
He stood suddenly, that smirk heightening how unsettled I felt. Water sluiced down his body in rivulets. Leftover bubbles from the soap sliding down sluggishly.
I stepped back, my slipper skidding on the wet tile. A hot flush traveled to my face, burning my chest.
He prowled forward, causing my heart to ram against my chest harder.
“I have never troubled myself with humanity’s absurd behaviors.” The corner of his lips twitched higher, and he leaned forward, bare body on full display. “But I find you fascinating,” he murmured, sweet breath brushing against my cheek. “How you sway toward me, how you watch me. Your jealousy.”
I rocked forward, called forth by the magnetism of his presence, of his ethereal beauty.
And it made me angrier.
“You are full of yourself, Cassiel Draven,” I spat, his name spilling from my lips with ease.
A terrifying stillness fell over him.
I had made a grave mistake. Ice flooded my veins.
He straightened in a slow rise, lacking any human expression.
My mouth snapped shut a beat too late. I had taken it too far. Renata made it clear not to say his name.
“You dare?” he hissed. “You are nothing but a body to be used.” His voice reverberated through me. Dread rendered me immobile. “Nothing but a Vessel for my bondmate. I would have struck you dead if not for that.”
The threat landed, and I flinched. Still, I could not speak or beg for forgiveness. Words refused to push past the sludge clinging to my thoughts.
“I suppose I have not made your position here clear.”
He took hold of my nape so quickly that I had no chance to run.
“My lord,” I started, but the grip on the back of my neck tightened until I cried out.
He shoved me to my knees. I fell with a cry, the force racking through my bones. Tears stung my eyes. His grip moved to the top of my head, bunching my hair to the point of pain, and he pushed me forward. My mouth parted to the invasion of his member.
Silky flesh grazed my teeth, but instead of retreating, he thrust in.
Relax your jaw!
I breathed out slowly through my nose, and it helped clear the fog trying to drag me into fear. I straightened my spine and took hold of his base.
Draven gasped, arching his hips to drive more of his flesh into my mouth. My jaw strained from the invasion. I softened my mouth, not fighting against his force. He tasted earthy and salty, a mix so completely intoxicating that it had ingrained itself on my tongue.
I squeezed my palm over the knot. Carefully, I felt around the portion that dipped then over the swell, learning the hard muscle as best as I could.
Spit dripped down his shaft to where my hand gripped his base, and I rubbed my palm over it.
It made the glide smoother, and he twitched.
Swirling my tongue around the tip, I followed the fold at the top, delving it under the crease.
A deep, guttural groan accompanied his thrust.
Between my legs had grown sensitive until I was forced to squeeze my thighs together.
“Saints, you feel so good.”
As perverse as it was, I liked how he reacted to being in my mouth.
His seed spilled across my tongue in harsh drags. I clenched the thick flesh at the base, and another wave of his need warmed my mouth. I swallowed as fast as I could, but it came too fast, and it dribbled from the corner of my mouth.
I did not stop rubbing his member. His moans and grunts were addicting.
He grabbed my arm. The chamber swam, and I could not see where he was dragging me. I landed on the bed, my breath punching out of me.
My slippers had gone flying, so my bare feet pressed into the soft cushion of his bed. He settled on top of me, his weight spreading my legs wide. My fingers curled into the bedding. His sudden speed never ceased to surprise me.
“Your taste is intoxicating,” he breathed into my neck, dragging his nose up to my ear.
The sensation urged me to hike my shoulders up to hide my throat. He groaned and his hand squeezed my hip. He struck, sinking his fangs into the column of my neck. My skin gave way to fangs with ease, and he fed.
I cried out, my hips lifting. Pleasure rippled through my nerve endings. Each drag from his lips raised the pulsation until it was unbearable. I widened my thighs even more. With his mouth attached to my throat, his hard abdomen pressed against that maddening ache.
He lifted, slowly dragging his tongue across the puncture wounds. “Let us see how you take me.”
Lord Draven rose above me, scarlet staining his lips. Rising and sitting back on his legs, he shoved away one of the panels of my dress. Then he reached for my bloomers.
He was going to take me regardless of what I begged. Some sickness inside me that kindled in my belly wanted it.
A loud rip rent the air.
Lord Draven spread my legs wider, keeping his position with his knees pressing into the bedding as he stared down.
“Drenched little cunt.” He slid a fingertip along the seam of my sex.
Inhaling did nothing to assuage the agony.
I had reached a feverish pitch.
“F-fuck me then,” I whispered, half-hopeful-half fearful. I flopped onto my stomach, just as the man had the woman back in the brothel, arms folded under my cheek, my hips slightly raised.
Cold air touched my bottom for longer than necessary.
He had not moved. The silence forced me to peer at him over my shoulder. I had only the profile of Lord Draven’s face within view, then a deafening laugh left his mouth.