He says it so clinically. Like we're discussing crop rotation.
"And if I don't?"
"Then I will weaken. Eventually, I will enter a state similar to starvation. It is... unpleasant."
"But not deadly?"
"Not immediately." A pause. "Your grandmother fed me regularly. Every seven days, precisely."
Of course she did. Grandmother was nothing if not efficient.
I look at him, really look at him, and I see what I missed before. The way he holds himself so carefully still, like movement costs him. The shadows under his eyes that might be exhaustion or might just be part of being undead. The way his hands, now resting at his sides, tremor almost imperceptibly.
"When did she last feed you?"
"Four weeks ago." He says it without inflection. "The week before she died."
Four weeks. He said he needs to feed every seven days.
"You're already weakening."
"It is manageable."
"That's not..." I take a breath, trying to organize my thoughts. "Okay. We should do the ritual. Now. Tonight. And then we need to talk about... everything else."
He inclines his head in what might be a bow. "As you command."
"It's not a command." I stop myself. This is going to be a much longer conversation than I have energy for tonight. "Where do we do this?"
"Here is sufficient." He gestures to the desk chair. "If you would sit, Mistress Ashwood."
"Iris. Please just call me Iris."
He hesitates, and I see something flicker in his eyes. Confusion? Suspicion?
"As you wish... Iris."
He says my name like he's testing out a foreign word.
I sit in the nearby armchair and try not to think about what I'm about to do. Cadeon moves to kneel beside me with that unnatural grace, and somehow the formal position makes this feel even more intimate. Wrong on every possible level, but when I open my mouth to protest, he's already taking my wrist in both his hands.
His fingers are cold. Gentle, reverent even, but cold.
He looks up at me, those pale gray eyes meeting mine, and for a moment I see something flicker in them. Hunger, yes, but also hesitation. "This will hurt," he says quietly, his voice dropping lower. "Only for a moment. I apologize."
"It's fine. I've had worse. I once spilled hot wax on my..."
He bites down, and I forget whatever I was going to say.
It does hurt. A sharp, cold sting that makes me gasp, but then, like he promised, the pain fades. What replaces it is... unexpected.
Heat.
It starts at the bite, then spreads up my arm in a slow, liquid wave. Not unpleasant. The opposite of unpleasant, actually, which is confusing and more than a little alarming. My whole body suddenly feels warm, almost feverish, like I've had too much wine on an empty stomach.
And through it all, I can feel the bond activate, the magic flaring to life like a cord pulled taut between us.
Through it, I feelhim.
