Elspeth would have commanded. Would have dictated every detail and expected flawless execution. Would never have asked.
"Yes," I hear myself say. "If you wish it."
"I wish it." She says it immediately, relief flooding her features. "I really, really wish it."
Something warm unfurls in my chest. Not the bond. Something else. Something that feels dangerously like purpose.
"Then we will plan," I tell her. "Together."
Her smile could rival the sun but tempered by reality.
The feeding is due.
I have been avoiding acknowledging this fact for two days now, but the hunger is starting to make itself known. That hollow ache that begins as discomfort and will eventually become consuming need.
I should simply inform her. This is what the bond is for: maintenance, sustenance, the practical necessities of keeping the familiar functional.
But the memory of the last feeding stops me. The heat that spread through her. The way her heart raced. The small sound she made when I bit into her creamy skin.
The way I felt her pleasure through the bond and wanted. Oh how I wanted.
No. I cannot think about that.
"Cadeon?"
I turn. She is in the doorway of the library, backlit by evening light. She has changed for dinner into something softer than her usual work clothes, her hair loose around her shoulders.
"Yes?"
"It's been a week." She says it gently, without judgment. "You need to feed."
Of course she has been counting. Of course she remembers.
"I did not wish to presume..."
"You're not presuming. This is part of the bond, right? Maintenance?" She steps into the room. "Besides, I'd rather do it now, comfortably, than wait until you're weakened."
Practical. Sensible. This should be easy. A biological function.
It is not easy.
"Where do you wish to do this?" I ask, aiming for the clinical tone this transaction should have.
"The sitting room? By the fire?" She is already walking that direction. "It's warmer there. More comfortable."
Comfortable. As if comfort has anything to do with feeding.
But I follow her to the sitting room, where the fire burns bright and the chairs are arranged in a way that suggests conversation rather than formal ritual.
She settles into one of the chairs, curling her legs beneath her in a way that is utterly unselfconscious. Then she looks up at me expectantly.
"Aren't you going to sit?"
"I typically kneel for this."
"I know. But you don't have to." She pats the chair beside hers. "You could sit with me."
I could. She is offering me the choice.
