Chapter 13 #2
Every inch of the movement feels far too deliberate despite being entirely accidental.
Her fingers drag over my shoulders. Her chest brushes mine. The curve of her hip catches against me before she finally finds her footing.
For one suspended moment, neither of us moves.
The garden falls strangely quiet.
Nyx's eyes lift to mine, wide and startled. The moonlight catches in the hazel, turning the gold flecks brighter. Her lips part as though she's about to say something, but no sound comes out.
I become painfully aware of every point of contact between us. Of how small she is. Of how good she smells. Of the fact that I should absolutely be stepping backward.
Instead, I find myself looking at her mouth.
Which is a mistake.
A very serious mistake.
Her gaze flickers downward between us for the briefest second before jumping back to my face. Color rises in her cheeks. Interesting. The realization sends a dangerous sort of satisfaction through me. Not because she's embarrassed but because she felt it too.
Neither of us seems entirely certain what to do with that knowledge.
Eventually, she takes a hurried step backward, putting space between us. It’s an excellent idea. One I probably should've had first.
With the immediate danger having passed, I'm suddenly aware of a new sensation.
A deep, heady scent drifts through the garden, threading itself between crushed leaves, damp earth, and moonlit flowers. At first, I can't place it. Then I breathe in again.
My entire body goes still. Interesting. The smell is subtle, but once I catch it, I can't seem to focus on anything else. Unfortunately, the source is standing directly in front of me.
“You know,” Nyx muses, “I'm beginning to suspect your green thumb needs a little work.”
I bark out a laugh.
“You wound me.” I shake my head. “I thought my technique was rather innovative.”
She laughs, and the sound is musical and light.
I lean in a little closer, breathing her scent in. “But you should know, flirting and fighting at the same time is a particularly valuable kind of skill.”
The words earn me an eye roll.
A very good eye roll.
“Do you flirt with every woman as you rescue them from murderous shrubbery?”
“Only the attractive ones.”
She folds her arms. “Uh, okay. Thanks?”
I try not to pout. “I was hoping you'd be more impressed.”
“By your swordsmanship?”
“By my charm.”
That finally pulls a reluctant smile from her and the wind shifts.
There it is again. That scent. I catch another breath before I can stop myself.
My gaze lingers on her longer than it should. I’m transfixed by the loose strands of dark hair escaping her braid, the color high in her cheeks, the way her hazel eyes catch the moonlight.
There's an undeniable pull toward her.
“Why did you help me?” she asks.
The question drags me back to the conversation. “Didn’t you need help?”
“Yeah, but why you? My competition?”
I shift my weight, studying her. The honest answer makes no sense. I should've stayed inside. I should've ignored Valtor's little game. I should've left Thorian's partner to solve her own problems.
Instead, the moment I saw she was in danger, I'd gone after her.
“I'm not sure,” I admit.
Her brow furrows. “That isn't reassuring.”
“No, but it's honest.”
She studies me, as though trying to determine whether I'm making fun of her.
I grin. “Suppose I've always had a soft spot for beautiful women.”
“Right.”
“You don't believe me.”
“Not particularly.”
Now, I do pout. “Cruel.”
“Realistic.”
“Those are usually the same thing.”
Her laugh slips out before she can stop it. I find myself smiling in response, which is a dangerous development.
The scent grows stronger. No, not stronger exactly. Nearer.
Without realizing it, I've taken a step toward her. Then another. She doesn't seem to notice. Or if she does, she doesn't retreat.
“Are all vampires this strange?” she asks.
“Absolutely not. Most of them lack my charm and heroic beauty.”
That earns another laugh. The sound settles unpleasantly deep in my chest. Then she reaches up to push a loose strand of hair behind her ear and suddenly hisses.
The noise instantly gets my attention.
“What happened?”
She lowers her hand. A tiny bead of blood glistens at the tip of one finger. And suddenly I know exactly what I've been smelling.
Oh. The realization hits with startling force. The scent that has been wrapping itself around my thoughts all this time isn't the flowers. It isn't the garden. It's her. And it’s… so different from any blood I’d smelled before.
“It's nothing,” Nyx says. “One of the thorns got me.”
Nothing.
Right.
My gaze remains fixed on that smear of crimson.
The craving that follows is deeply inconvenient.
I've spent years mastering my thirst. Years enjoying complete control over it.
Yet standing here, watching the blood on her fingertip, I suddenly understand why young vampires make such spectacularly bad decisions.
“Are you alright?” she asks.
The concern in her voice is almost funny.
“No,” I say honestly.
Before I can reconsider, I close the remaining distance between us.
Nyx goes very still. So do I. Neither of us speaks. Then I take her hand in mine. My thumb brushes lightly against her knuckles as I lift her injured finger, unable to look away from that impossible smear of blood.
“Forgive me,” I murmur.
And before either of us can think better of it, I bring her fingertip to my lips.
The instant I taste her blood, the world tilts. It rushes through me like a shock of cold water, like plunging into a lake in the dead of winter. Every sense sharpens at once. My pulse pounds. My thoughts scatter. The night air feels brighter, cleaner, charged with impossible energy.
Nothing could have prepared me for this.
The blood itself is rich and intoxicating, but it's the feeling that follows that truly steals my breath. It's as though I've been walking through life half asleep and only now have I been jolted awake.
For one dizzying moment, all I can think about is her.
When Lady Nyx leans away from me, letting out a low noise in her throat, I realize I’ve overstepped, and I pull my lips from her finger.
“Forgive me,” I rasp, stepping back and putting some much-needed space between us.
I shouldn’t be out here in the first place, let alone tasting her, giving my addled brain even more reasons to stray to her.
“I…” she says, and when she lifts those bright eyes to mine, it takes all the restraint in my body to keep from taking her here. In more ways than one.
Drinking from a person is highly personal, highly potent.
A bond forms, however slight. But not like this.
This is different. Our bond, formed by my saliva in her, her blood in me, has already snapped into place with a strength that’s shocking, an introduction of what could come if I continued drinking her.
Right now, with just the lightest touch, she looks like she might melt into my arms and tip her head to the sky so I could take from her to my heart’s content.
“You should walk away,” I say, instead of commanding her to come back to me, “while you still can.”
I’m not sure if I’m talking about me and her, or the Trials, but she takes the obvious meaning from both.
She shakes her head, the wisps of hair framing her face floating up in the cool night air. “That’s not an option. My sister is the Courted Prize. If I walk away, she’ll die.”
I don’t like that at all, and swallow, looking away from her as I joke, “Right. And when you die in the Trials, how will that improve her situation?”
“It won’t,” she says, with the voice of a woman who has already considered all the possible outcomes, and knows which one is most likely. “But I have to try. If I do not try, then I’ll die anyway, as a stranger to myself.”
Of course she’s doing this for such a pure reason.
Much more virtuous than my own.
There’s the loud boom of Valtor’s laughter through the grand windows of the ballroom, and Lady Nyx startles.
“Go back inside,” I say, trying to shake away the serious feeling of foreboding that wells in my stomach at the idea of her in the competition. “Only tell them I helped you if you want us both smited.”
“Is smote the correct way to say that?”
“I’m not sure it will matter much when we’re smited,” I volley back, and she shoots me a small smile before turning and hurrying inside, the little golden flower held protectively against her chest.
Her small smile only means one thing. She knows there's no point in us being friends. Tomorrow, when the competition begins, chances are I'll either have to watch her die by another competitor or kill her myself.
Getting attached to this woman would be a mistake.
I decide to take a walk around the garden, to breathe in the fresh night air and wash myself clean of this moment, but even hours later, her taste still lingers on my tongue and my cock remains painfully hard.