Chapter 19
“Married? For ten years?”
Aster was still reeling fifteen minutes after Wallace had left the apartment.
Sylvia had immediately gotten giddy over the new money in their bank account—and was now furiously tabbing through abandoned tabs.
They’d probably have ten deliveries by noon: new furniture to piss off Tony and Andrew; a robot vacuum cleaner that Sylvia had been eyeing.
“What?” Sylvia looked up from her virtual shopping cart with a frown, as if she didn’t see what the problem was. “Well, I can’t just say six hundred years. Then he’d start asking questions.”
Aster blinked several times in disbelief as she lowered herself onto the couch.
She removed Sylvia’s laptop from her lap, much to the other woman’s chagrin—although Sylvia didn’t put much fight into keeping it, she just made a bunch of petulant noises—and Aster slung her arm over the couch, so it was inches from Sylvia’s shoulder. But not touching.
“Sylvia,” Aster breathed out, trying to keep her voice steady.
Stagnant. Sylvia gave her an annoyed look that said Can we get this over with, so I can get back to my online shopping?
Aster gave her a look back that said Shut up.
She continued, “I was not criticizing how long our hypothetical, well, no, our non-existent marriage has been going on for—”
She groaned, hearing herself. You’re babbling. “My point is, was, whatever— why did you claim we were married at all? We weren’t planning on telling Wallace about the aliases. And now we don’t even need the aliases. So why don’t we just…”
Drop the act.
Her lips stilled.
She couldn’t force the words out.
Because, well, fuck— she really wouldn’t mind being Sylvia’s wife, would she?
Which was a complete and utter surprise to Aster.
Because not only had she not cared for marriage before, she’d been actively disgusted by it.
Marriage made women into property. It had always been a legal tax-agreement afforded to the heterosexual portion of the population that, at best, was used to steal a man’s wealth, and at worst, involved a humiliating ritual involving a white dress.
Aster never cared for men; and she never wore white.
Vampire marriages were even worse, if Sylvia was a reliable source to go by. Which of course she wasn’t. But Aster believed her nonetheless. She was nothing if not pious.
But just imagining the sound of that word—wife—coming out of Sylvia’s mouth—
Goosebumps ran up Aster’s arms.
Oh god.
She wanted that.
She wanted that.
Aster tried to hide that earth-shattering realization from her face, biting down hard on her lip as Sylvia finally gave her full attention. The other woman’s suit top had become a total mess, unbuttoned and creased.
They’d need to iron it before the wedding. Funeral. Not wedding.
Fuck.
“What? You don’t want to be my wife?”
Aster’s breath hitched. Sylvia’s chin was resting on her knee when she said it, an all too casual way to deliver such a question. She didn’t flavor it with any kind of teasing; her whole body said it with a shrug. But Aster could see mischief dancing behind the facade.
And sure enough: “I’m a shit cook, sure.
And I won’t do your laundry. I’ll probably even flirt with other men and then call you crazy when you catch me.
But I have a few redeeming qualities,” Sylvia continued, a small, barely-there smirk growing on her face as she lifted her hand to wrap around Aster’s own on the couch cushion.
She began to walk her fingers down Aster’s shirt sleeve, like a bored child.
“For example, as of five minutes ago, I now come attached with a fifteen thousand dollar dowry. Try to find another field maiden with that kind of liquid cash. You won’t. ”
Sylvia slowly descended upon her, walking her fingers up and up Aster’s sleeve, until they were curling around the collar of her shirt.
Within seconds Sylvia was straddling her, sitting in her lap and carding her fingers through Aster’s hair.
Sylvia bit her lip. “You’d make a pretty bride.”
Aster’s heart was pure thunder. What the fuck. What the fuck.
“Our ceremony was probably a short one,” Sylvia continued to imagine aloud. She laughed. “You probably ate one of the guests for looking at me wrong.”
She pulled a little at Aster’s hair, and Aster whimpered.
Sylvia smirked when she heard the sound. “You’d make that sound a lot on our honeymoon. Over and over. All night long…”
Aster just stared at her as Sylvia closed her eyes, imagination running wild.
What was this? Foreplay? Torture? Something else?
“Sylvia?” Aster said weakly, unable to find any other words.
The pale vampire’s curls coalesced around Aster’s collarbones. There was only a hair of a breath between them now; enough that Sylvia could undoubtedly hear the shuddering of Aster’s heartbeat. But she didn’t lean in—or make a move to press her teeth to Aster’s neck.
She just dangled there.
“Yes?” Sylvia answered, pupils dilated.
Aster’s eyes darted to her lips. She felt a strong current pulling her toward them.
Except—
Am I allowed to kiss her?
Was this sex? Was this something else?
“What are we doing?” Aster whispered.
Sylvia’s lips pressed into a line. She didn’t seem sure herself of the answer.
“Playing pretend,” she said, finally, then amended it. “Getting into character.”
Sex it is, then. “Roleplaying?”
Sylvia’s eyes darkened. “Ding ding,” she said.
“And you want to call me…”
I should stop this now, Aster thought, not a moment after. I need to stop this now.
Sylvia stared at her intensely as she finished her sentence, “My wife?”
Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.
Aster’s eyes must have widened to the size of two golf balls from the way Sylvia chuckled at her.
“Yeah?” Sylvia used her nails to streak down Aster’s neck. “You’d like that?”
Sylvia had that lilt in her voice again. The one that was trying to sound sure of herself, but really was asking a question—uncertain, unsure. A slight tremble.
“Yes,” Aster hissed, closing her eyes. Because in the dark she could pretend this was real. That this wasn’t just a scene—a play—theater.
One of Sylvia’s little one-woman-shows.
Sylvia’s hands began to trail their way down her sides.
“Aw, you want that so bad, don’t you? You want me to call you my wife while I fill you up?
While I fuck you until you lose your hearing?
” she drawled, breathless. “You want to pretend to be my wife while I mark you all over? You want to repeat our vows with my fangs buried in your neck? When you come on my fingers?”
Oh god. Oh god.
“Fuck. Sylvia. Yes.” Aster shuddered. Equal parts emotion and desire flooded her chest. She wasn’t sure she’d survive this. Immortality knew nothing of Sylvia Maroven. “Please, yes.”
“Yeah? You want to be my little wife, Aster? All mine? No one else’s?”
“God, baby. Yes, yes, yes,” Aster whined, as Sylvia’s hands slid up her chest. She repeated the word deliriously, like she was praying to a higher power.
She felt like a mortal bent over in a church pew, speaking in tongues.
She’d never wanted to turn something from fiction to fact so badly in her life.
She wanted to Suggest it into Sylvia’s mind. She wanted to make it true.
“Really? You do?”
Aster’s eyes slid hazily back open. Because by now she’d expected Sylvia’s teeth in her neck; Sylvia’s knee, hand, arm, mouth, pressed up in between her legs; any kind of friction, any kind of excuse to take this conversation off the dangerous teetering cliff of meaning something.
But Sylvia’s voice had only grown more uncertain every time Aster insisted. And true enough, when Aster took her in again, Sylvia didn’t look hot and bothered. She looked… startled.
“Sylvia?” Aster asked, immediately snapping back to reality. “Are you okay?”
Sylvia blinked several times. Her lips were slightly parted, breath coming shallowly from her throat. And that’s when Aster saw it—the damp discoloration just below her eyelashes. A slight redness to her pupils. Barely noticeable, but Aster was close enough to see every detail.
She was… crying?
Aster’s stomach dropped, all the lust leaving her body in a rush.
“Sylvia, what’s wrong?” Aster said urgently, lifting her hand to wipe under Sylvia’s eyes. But as soon as the pad of her finger touched her cheek, Sylvia shook her head, turning her face away. She didn’t lift herself from Aster just yet, but Aster could feel her spikes coming up like a porcupine.
“I’m fine,” she bristled. Then inhaled sharply. “Just kiss me.”
She turned toward Aster again then, and dragged her forward like a lightning bolt.
It was desperate and open-mouthed, and Aster couldn’t help but groan into it, her legs spreading involuntarily.
But her worry was headier than her desire; she could taste Sylvia’s tears on her tongue.
She tried pushing against Sylvia’s chest, silently reasoning with her to stop, but the other woman refused, just pressing deeper into Aster’s mouth.
“Sylvia…” Aster whispered the words against Sylvia’s insistent mouth, which kept punctuating her syllables with kisses that said shut up, shut up. “You’re crying— we should— we should stop.”
Sylvia drew back suddenly, and the swiftness gave Aster whiplash.
And—more alarming—the other woman’s eyes were glowing red.
“I’m not crying,” Sylvia said, and Aster felt pin pricks inside her skull. Sylvia’s intruding fingers were aiming for her mind. The attack was almost offensive in its brazenness.
“Sylvia,” Aster scoffed. “I can see the tears on your face.”
Sylvia leaned again, capturing Aster’s lips once more. “No you don’t,” she muttered against her mouth, and Aster felt that strike against her cerebrum once more—like a spear.
“Sylvia.”