5. Shemaiah #2
I’ve never seen her this way, relaxed in sleep, vulnerable. She’s always been fragile because of her illness, but she usually hides her weakness behind a steely demeanor. She certainly isn’t weak of spirit. Right now, though, all of her defenses are down.
I move closer, her scent both calling and repelling me. The illness is so pervasive that I’m disgusted I’d want to test that flavor. But my mouth waters, uncaring. My fangs distend.
Before I’m aware I’ve moved, I’m kneeling at her side, running a sharp claw down the length of her arm, covered in the yellow fabric of her dress. How easy it would be to shred the material and uncover her bare skin.
I touch her hand and lift her wrist to my lips. My hearts skip out of rhythm. Venom fills my mouth. The tip of my tongue grazes her skin. Fuck, she tastes good. My mouth opens, ready to strike.
She stirs.
I freeze.
Her eyes flutter. “Shemaiah?”
I jerk away and clear my throat, offering my tongue time to process what my brain is telling me. “I was just checking to be sure you’re alright.”
She tilts her head and studies the hand I held a second ago. My fingers still tingle from the warmth of her skin.
I’m not sure if she knows what I almost did. And if she does, if she understands. I don’t fully understand it myself. I always have less control during a new moon, but I’m still shocked at my actions. “It isn’t safe for you to be out of your room tonight.”
“I was restless.”
I swallow, venom trailing down the back of my throat, then take a deep breath to clear my irrational mind.
Her scent hits me, and my fangs slide free again.
My hands curl into fists, claws biting my palms. I sit across from her, keeping the low table between us.
A barrier, if only mental. I could take her if I wanted. But I don’t. I don’t.
She sets the book down on the table. In The Shadow of a Wish, the same book I was reading yesterday. A smile plays on my lips as I consider that. It’s possible she only picked it up because it was already out, but I like the idea of reading the same story together, even if separately.
“Are you still restless, Pippa?” Surprised by the suggestiveness in my question, I hurry to add, “Would you like to play a game? Maybe do a puzzle?”
She lifts a finger to her lips, slightly curled with a grin, and hums. “I would.”
My cock twitches, and I cross my legs, trying to conceal my desire. Rather than get up, I lean forward and select a deck of cards because it’s already on the table. “Do you know how to play Elementals?”
Her grin widens. “I know absolutely nothing.” Her tone makes it clear she’s teasing.
“Ah, better odds for me then.” I shuffle the deck with a smile, enjoying her sudden playfulness, then deal each of us ten cards.
She deftly picks hers up and sorts them.
I wonder about her method, and look at mine, organizing the gold, the wind, the iron, the water, and other cards I have into the proper categories. “You first.”
She looks at her deck, then her blue eyes lift, narrowing slightly, before she sets an earth card on the table. It isn’t the strongest suit, but it isn’t the weakest either. She’s feeling me out, I decide.
I have some extra water cards, so I play one, allowing her to win the trick.
She chews her bottom lip and concentrates on her cards with lowered brows.
“I take it you’re competitive?” I ask.
“Why would you say that?” She plays a sun card and raises an eyebrow at me. Other than gold and diamond, it’s one of the strongest cards in the game.
I chuckle and play my sole gold card, knowing that might come back to haunt me. It does.
After she wins two more hands, I attempt to distract her. She isn’t the only competitive one. “Tell me about your son.”
“He’s…” She pauses and gets a little wrinkle in the middle of her nose. “What do you want to know?”
“How old is he?”
“Three,” she answers easily, laying another earth card.
“What’s he like?” I take the hand and play another card. “Does he have any favorite games or activities?”
That scrunched expression returns. “I… um…” She shakes her head.
“He likes the normal things three-year-old boys enjoy.” She lays one of the worst cards she could play, and gauging from the number of other cards in her hand, it’s clear it’s not her only option.
She’s more distracted than I thought, and I feel bad for bringing up her boy just to win a game.
“I’m sorry,” she says with her eyes cast down. “I actually haven’t been able to see him much. Visits once a week—if the doctors deemed I was feeling up for it.” Her voice breaks, though there are no tears.
“That’s unacceptable.” My outrage on her behalf has me holding my cards so tight they wrinkle.
She shakes her head. “It was what it needed to be, I suppose. I couldn’t take care of myself, let alone him, and children aren’t allowed to stay in The Sanatorium.” Any emotion that broke through is muted now, resigned, covered in her normal stoicism.
My eyes slide to her pulse point, and I swallow, watching it thrum. Looking back to study my cards, I pull a water card.
“When were you diagnosed? How did you end up at The Sanatorium?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.
Her bright and intelligent eyes jump up to meet mine, her mouth a thin line communicating her discomfort at my inquiry. She plays a low iron card, allowing me the trick before answering. “I was diagnosed when I was pregnant with Tobias and immediately admitted.”
I stay silent, hoping she might offer more. I’m suddenly as famished for information about her as I am for blood. Every detail of this woman’s story fascinates me. Her love for her son. Her clear grief at their separation. The strength she shows in the face of a challenging diagnosis.
“Why isn’t Tobias with his father?” There’s a strange stirring of anger in my gut as I think of the man who left her to face all that alone.
I’ve asked her about him before, only to be met with vague answers.
I don’t understand how a man could so thoroughly neglect his own child and the woman who bore that child.
“He doesn’t know anything about my illness.
” She lifts her chin. “And I have no intention of telling him. Our parting… wasn’t amicable.
” She presses her lips together, making it clear she doesn’t want to discuss this anymore.
Some part of me wants to push, to pry, to crack her open so I can understand every bit of her. But it’s not my place.
I play my next card—a low wind card.
She looks at it and grins. “Are you trying to lose?”
“Nonsense,” I say, but I smile as she takes the trick.
Her focus returns along with the silence as she considers her next card. It’s clear she’s still immersed in unpleasant memories, and I find myself wanting to make her smile again.
“So, what did you think of the god of night?” I nod to the book she was reading.
Her eyes lighten as she begins to tell me her favorite parts of the story. Though I win the game, the real prize is the smile on her face.
“Again?” she challenges.
“Again.” Always again.