CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Davien
WHAT WAS IT with that woman? I pinched the bridge of my nose as though that could somehow undo the past thirty minutes. I had never in all my almost nine hundred years alive cum in my pants and not even been aware.
I exhaled sharply, digging through all of the cupboards and drawers in this stupid room.
I cursed internally, it seems the previous occupant had been a woman.
So unless I wanted to wear a floral nightgown, I’d have to make do with my ripped to shit t-shirt and cum-stained jeans. Fuck my goddamn life.
I didn’t know how to handle Ailsa. I was driven to protect her on a primal level, yet at the same time she infuriated me on a level that was unnatural. Even now, I was worried she’d make a run for it.
I ripped what little was left of my t-shirt—which had been a favourite of mine, vintage from the sixties and now truly ruined beyond salvage—and checked on my injuries.
My gaze dropped to the claw marks covering my chest, fingers tracing lightly over the broken skin.
They were worse than I had expected to be honest. It had been a long time since I’d taken damage like this.
But they were almost healed already, thankfully.
Thanks to her blood.
Fuck, I hadn’t realised what was happening.
My self-awareness had been completely absent.
Actually, I was fairly certain I was closer to death than I’d been in hundreds of years, and that was saying something.
Those fucking beasts must have been drawn to her power.
I’d barely managed to fight them off and then… then she saved me.
I groaned, taking off my jeans and boxers.
What else was I to do? Let it dry and walk around with the crusty evidence?
Fuck that. No, I’d just have to wash the area and walk around with a wet patch until it dried.
Better that than the alternative. Blood I could handle, that wasn’t beyond the realm of norm for me, but not this. Not when I’d have to go and face her.
I hurried from the bedroom to the shitty little bathroom, junk out, not particularly caring if she saw or not.
It’s not like that could have been more mortifying than cumming from dry-humping her.
Luckily enough though, she was curled up on the settee facing the other way.
I should have been relieved to see she wasn’t trying to fight me or run, but for some reason it only made me feel a weird pang in my gut.
I hoped she was sleeping; she’d need her energy and after feeding me.
She was undoubtedly only weakened further by that, as if she hadn’t already been spent enough from the magic use.
Urgh, this was such a mess. Maybe I should have just handed her in to the Ninth, but my gut told me she was important.
I turned the tap, relieved to see water sputtering out.
I cleaned the blood off my body, scrubbed the stains off my clothes, wrung the water out of the fabric as much as I could and put them back on.
I fucking loathed the feeling of the damp clothing against my junk.
I grit my teeth, looking into the little mirror above the sink.
I looked like fucking shit. I needed a shower, some clean clothes and blood.
Blood that wasn’t hers. I could still feel the lingering effects of it swimming through my system, and just the thought of how fucking good it had tasted made my own blood rush south until I was hard again.
The sound of the little moan that had made me come to my senses and cum echoed in my mind.
It made me want to know how she might sound if I was to make her cum.
No. No, absolutely not. I was not going to allow my mind to head that way. Fuck no. I had no interest in her, other than seeing her safe for reasons far beyond my pathetic little life. This was just her blood talking. It had to be.
I hammered my fist into the stupidly small sink—who designs these caravans, there’s hardly room to breathe, never mind much else, they’re so fucking small—to snap myself out of this spiral and it cracked from the force of it. I pulled myself back together and faced her.
“Let’s go,” I commanded, and she shot me a look so sharp it could have cut me in half, her defiance well and truly back.