Chapter 22. Reminder.
Apair of glowing, brown eyes met me in the mirror, the cold water slid down my cheeks, washing off the last bits of my wicked dream—the dream I wished hadn’t ended so fast.
My cheeks were the color of crimson, no matter my best attempts at stopping these ridiculous—and certainly inappropriate—thoughts of Francis. My skin heated at a mere touch, my stomach twisted in anticipation.
How was I to train with him if even thoughts were so distracting?
“You are ridiculous,” I told the mirror, though it didn’t stop the woman in front of me from looking all ecstatic.
The castle’s halls were silent: save for the whispering paintings on the walls and the humming statues, whose eyes followed my path to the training hall.
The smell of old lit cigars erupted in the air as I passed Francis’ study; my heart fluttered. Every breath left me with an ache in my lower stomach that I wasn’t capable of ruling.
“Enough, Cordelia,” I whispered, shaking my head in a weak attempt to clear my mind before yanking the door to the hall open.
Francis stood in the middle of the hall. A linen shirt hung on his shoulder: the top few buttons left loose. He held the bow Florence had gifted him, his strong hands setting the arrow free. The visible veins on his hands made my stomach flutter anew.
I would’ve rolled my eyes at my own folly if Francis hadn’t been staring at me from the center of the hall.
“I wasn’t expecting for you to wake so early,” he said, glancing at the stained glass window by the ceiling: sundown was upon us.
“Couldn’t sleep.” I shrugged, making my way towards him.
“I hope I wasn’t the reason for your restless night.” Francis winked, settling his bow back onto its stand.
“Do you ever tire of your arrogance?” My voice betrayed me as I rolled my eyes, unsheathing my sword.
“Is that a blush I see on your cheeks, Princess?” Francis pointed at my face, a smirk growing on his face.
“Possibly.” I pointed the sword at the bare area of his chest. “I often find myself feeling flustered when others embarrass themselves.”
A bright laughter bounced off the walls of the hall. “Is that so?” Francis’ smirk grew bigger.
“Are you here to train me, or mock me?” I pushed the blade closer to his throat, fighting my own smile.
“Can’t I do both?” Francis’ brows rose when he eyed my weapon with amusement. “You seem to enjoy putting the tip of your blade at one’s neck.”
“You seem to enjoy having the tip of my blade at your neck.”
Francis took a step backwards, forcing me to lower my sword. “Let’s see what we are working with then.” He walked towards the wall that carried dozens of swords of different kinds.
He grabbed one that seemed fit to his liking, spinning it by the hilt. “Attack me.” He took his stance a few yards away from where I stood.
“What if I hurt you?” I mimicked his stance; my fingers wrapping around the hilt of my sword. “This is Royal steel.”
“Then you will have to suck the poison out of my wound.” Francis winked, gesturing me closer. “Come now, fight me.”
“All right.” I swung my blade, lunging in his direction.
“Not too bad.” Francis’ sword met mine: the metal clanking against each other echoed through the hall. “Don’t lean forward as much, you are compromising your balance.”
I lunged again, trying to follow Francis' advice. Each swing of the sword made my wrists cry out in pain. Every time Francis’ sword met mine I was forced to fight to keep the weapon in my grasp.
It didn’t take long for me to run out of breath. Sweat rolled down my forehead, my palms becoming slippery.
“Tired already?” Francis moved towards me: each step leaving me less room to maneuver. “We just started,” he chuckled.
“I am not tired,” I protested, deflating his attacks.
“Oh no?” Francis’ sword pushed me into a corner. He seemed entirely unbothered by the extent of our activity. “How come your sword shakes so much?” He pointed at the hilt of my blade.
“I am just not used to it.” I swung my sword once again, the blade slipping off my palm, flying past Francis: into the opposite corner of the hall.
Francis retrieved my blade, holding it before himself at a perfect angle. He studied the blade as the metal reflected the candlelight.
“It’s too heavy for you,” he said at last, spinning my sword in every direction.
“It is not,” I choked: my lungs still on fire. “It was made specifically for me.” I demanded the blade back.
“Cordelia, it’s heavy even for me, and unlike you, I do train often.
” Francis gave my sword a final spin before passing me the weapon.
“With a physique like yours, you shouldn’t fight with a sword.
Not yet at least.” He put his weapon back in its place.
“The sword will bring more harm than protection.”
“This is the only Royal steel weapon I have.” I sat on the floor against a wall, my lungs finally calming.
“You are more likely to get killed by it than to protect yourself.” Francis stood by my feet, his boots touching mine.
“I thought you were supposed to be helpful, not call me weak,” I mumbled, meeting his gaze.
“I am not calling you weak,” Francis chuckled, offering me a hand.
“All I am saying is that this weapon is not right for you, but I do have an idea.” He pulled me to my feet.
“Bring your sword to the dinner tonight, hopefully Ash has worked with Royal steel before.” Francis offered me his dagger. “In the meantime, train with these.”
My fingers wrapped around the slim hilt of Francis’ dagger when he pointed at the target on the wall behind my back.
“Do you remember our last lesson?” He murmured into my ear before taking a step backwards, allowing me space.
I mostly remembered what happened after the lesson... “Yes.” I held the dagger by its tip, swinging it for a throw.
The blade spun in the air when I let go, flying straight into my target. To my biggest surprise, the tip of the blade landed close to the center of the painted target. An inch of the tip disappeared into the wooden panel in a smooth motion.
“That was... good.” Francis retrieved the blade from the wood, offering me the weapon anew. “Really good,” he said, surprise written on his face.
I shrugged, as though it wasn’t mere luck that had spared me the embarrassment.
“Go again.” Francis stood behind me when I readied to throw. The smell of jasmine and cigars invaded my space.
This time, the blade was nowhere near the painted target, though it did land into the wood—certainly progress from our last lesson.
“The closer to heart the better.” Francis retrieved the blade, handing it to me.
Our fingers brushed against each other, sending waves of excitement through my bothered body.
“If you manage to hit the heart, the poison from the Royal steel will kill your opponent before their next breath.” He stood behind me—closer than before—as I swung the blade forward.
“Good,” Francis murmured into my ear when the blade split the wood anew. The smell of his flesh spun my head drunk, his heartbeat reaching my ears.
I hadn’t fed in days—
“What did Simon mean by a vampire can’t survive on their own kind's blood for long?” I faced Francis, remembering the unsettling comment Simon made. “Does that mean, eventually, I will have to...” The words died on my tongue.
“You needn’t worry yourself.” Francis put a stray strand of hair behind my ear.
“He was talking of those who feed on vampires that do not have access to human blood themselves,” Francis started.
“Since I still consume human blood, you get everything you need from me. That is precisely why Faris manages to survive without draining hundreds of humans weekly; even though we still need some of their blood.”
The idea of innocents hurting at the hands of someone like me turned my stomach upside down.
“There is no reason to pity them, Cordelia.” Francis reassured me as though reading my thoughts. “While what they do is dangerous, it is their own choice. Many come here again and again for pleasure.”
“Pleasure?” My cheeks reddened, despite the nausea that settled deep in my stomach.
“Those who did not break the law on human grounds, and come here of their own accord, mostly do it for pleasure, yes.” Francis nodded.
“Sure, most of them believe they are giving their blood as part of a sacrifice to the divine, but you can’t deny the pleasure they get from the act itself.
” A mischievous smile tugged on his lips.
“Just like you did when begging me to take your blood.”
“I felt no pleasure,” my voice turned into a whisper at my blatant lie. My heart fluttered at his words, my mouth watered.
“Oh, no?” He smirked. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten.” Francis crooked his head to one side, his eyes darkening.
“Perhaps I have.” The words spilled without my permission; yet I felt no remorse, no shame. “Perhaps you need to remind me.” I had lost my mind.
Francis’ brows flew high when the realization of what I had asked him settled. He cleared his throat before a smile unveiled his dimples. “I would be honored to.” His hands fell onto my waist, ushering me closer.
My hands fell onto his shoulder, my fingers still wrapped around his dagger.
His lips brushed over my neck, goosebumps covered my whole body. I moved my head to the side, offering him access, my fingers dug in his shoulders as the idea alone made my knees weak.
He planted a tender kiss on my skin, his soft lips stretched into a smile against my flesh before he asked, “Do I have your permission, Princess?”
The flowers bloomed deep in my stomach as my center ached in the most satisfying way possible. “Yes,” I breathed, my eyes closing in anticipation—
His teeth pierced my thin skin, a whimper pushing past my lips at the impact. His tongue waltzed across my skin as my blood spilled into his mouth.
My moan echoed though the training hall, and I cared not to stay quiet.
“Please,” I whined as my fingers let go of the dagger, letting it fall onto the marble floor—the clang rang in the hall. “Please.” My nails dug into his skin, pushing him closer.
His teeth punctured my skin once more, forcing another whine out of me. My limp body soothed into Francis’ embrace, his hands holding me from collapsing.
My eyes fluttered when his teeth escaped my flesh.
His tongue traveled across my open wound, catching every drop of blood.
More. I wished to beg, yet the words would not come out under Francis' playful gaze.
His lips carried drops of crimson; his face inches from mine.
“Is it next time yet?” His husky voice brushed over my ears.
“Hm?” My eyes struggled to focus through the fog that invaded my mind.
“You said I may steal your kiss next time,” Francis murmured, his lips moving closer to mine. “Is this next time?”
My stomach dropped to my heels as the flowers bloomed, wrapping around my center. My lips parted when my eyes planted on his lips.
I managed a small nod before finding his lips with my own.
Our tongues collided in a dance.
My teeth punctured his lower lip, his blood blending with mine, spilling onto my tongue.
His hand fell onto my cheek, ushering me closer. He tasted like fine wine—
“Cordelia?” The door to the hall creaked open as I broke our kiss in an instant.
Florence stood at the threshold, her gaze jumping from me to Francis. “Sorry!” She hurried out of the hall.
“No!” I called after her, pushing Francis away. He didn’t move an inch. “Wait! Is everything all right?”
Florence peeked through the ajar door. “I merely wondered if you would like to go to Faris earlier, Charlotte has been asking of you.”
The warmth traveled up my cheeks when I fought Francis away from me, he didn’t budge.
“Yes, of course!” I nodded at Florence, ignoring Francis’ smirk.
“Awesome!” Florence beamed, her smile growing bigger and bigger as she eyed Francis' hands on my waist. “We will leave in half an hour then.” She closed the door behind herself, her steps fading in the distance.
“Francis!” I hissed, fighting the smile off my face.
“Why, Princess, are you ashamed of me?” He pulled me closer, closing what little distance we shared. “Am I embarrassing you?” His lips brushed over my neck, tracing a pathway all the way to my ear.
“No.” A smile stretched on my face; my heart skipped a beat when he reached the corner of my lips.
“Well, good then,” he rasped. “Because you kissed me, I still haven’t had the chance to kiss you.” He teased as his lips found mine once more.