It was a thought she’d had before, particularly in the harsh winter months, but never with such urgency. The idea of the shifter being uncomfortable, even harmed by the cold, made her heart begin to race unpleasantly.
Wrong,the beast whispered in the back of her mind.Should be with him. Should care for him.
Certainly he would be warmer if they were together. What paltry body heat she could offer had to do something. Though she could hardly believe it, Josephine actually wished she could go to the barn.
If I could, then I would free him rather than offer my body heat.
Her heart lurched again. It was an awful feeling, as if the organ was so repulsed by the idea of him leaving her that it wished to exit her chest entirely. To follow him wherever he went.
It was useless to dream. It was even worse to connect, to crave the company of a subject. Josephine had learned those lessons early on.
And yet she found herself breaking all the rules as she stared longingly out the window. She imagined herself striding across the yard, into the barn, and opening the bolted door. She pictured herself unshackling him.
She closed her eyes as she felt her imaginary shifter hoist her into his arms and spirit her away from Meadow Creek, to some fine house with large gardens and children all around.
Her breath shortened as she considered what it might be like to feelhimtouchher.His hands would be rough on her tender skin, but he would be gentle. He’d proven that already. He would learn her as she’d learned him. He might even kiss her.
A deep, curious throbbing took up residence between her thighs. Josephine squeezed them together, instinctively trying to ease the unfamiliar ache as her core clenched.
What would it be like to not fear him? Would she love it when he embraced her? Would she feel a thrill when he pressed his weight down on her? Sex had always been leveraged as a threat against her, but with the shifter, she dared to imagine what it could bewithoutfear.
No one had ever touched her that way. Would he?
Pain, sharp and immediate, speared the roof of her mouth. Josephine gasped, fingers flying to her lips, and helplessly pressed the tip of her tongue against her venom gland. It was the same one vampires were born with or grew after being infected. Normally, it stored venom that was renowned for its ability to numb flesh and create a euphoric feeling in the bitten.
Hers did no such thing. As far as she was aware, its only use was in infecting people with lyssa. It had never bothered her before — at least when her father wasn’t sticking a needle into it — but now it couldn’t be ignored.
It felt hot and swollen. When she pressed on it, there was some relief, but only for a moment before the source of the pain shifted down to the roots of her retracted fangs.
The throbbing between her legs seemed to increase the pain in her mouth until they were intimately intertwined. Urgency, the craving for touch, the relentless need to go to him all stole the breath from her lungs.
In the cold darkness of her bedroom, Josephine thought,Oh gods, I want to bite him.
* * *
It was with a sick feeling in her gut that she followed Harrod into the barn the next day. All the joy of the previous day had soured like turned milk. She barely slept, could hardly even stomach a sip of water.
She was both horrified by her body’s reaction to him and desperate to see the shifter again. The urge to touch him grew stronger by the hour, just as her fear and repulsion did.
She could think of nothing beyond the need to bite him. The fevered imaginings of sinking her fangs into the hot, golden flesh of his throat kept her up all night, her damp thighs rubbing restlessly against one another.
For all that her father demanded she bite his subjects, Josephine had never felt the impulse to do so. She’d overheard her father say that their other subjects, once infected, often felt the desire to bite anyone when provoked to a rage, but she had never experienced anything of the sort.
Even in her monthly frenzies, she never felt compelled to bite. She clawed. She howled. She fought until the skin of her hands tore, but she didn’t everbite.
So why, when she stepped into the dark cell again, did she reflexively clench her teeth at the sight of the shifter standing tall and proud? Why did her core give a terrible, deep throb when his scent hit her nose? Why did she feel a fire in her blood, building hotter by the second, when the sound of his sharp intake of breath reached her?
She couldn’t bear to look him in the eye, but her fangs ached when she watched his shoulders flex, his hair shift over his scarred skin.
Hot shame flashed through her. On its heels came a foreign feeling, equally warm, but fizzy, electric. It was like excitement but more urgent. Restless.
When the door shut, the shifter murmured, “You have no idea what agony it is to watch you leave,kone,nor what bliss it is when you return to me.” She heard him swallow. His voice dropped so low, she wondered if it vibrated the stones around them. “Will you not greet me? I’ve missed your touch.”
Josephine didn’t answer right away. Instead, she hurried over to the sink, where she filled up his cup. It was all she could do to buy herself some time, and the need to look after him competed with the other restless feelings that seemed to pull her in all directions at once.
Keeping her eyes on the ground, she carefully walked back over to him before she stopped abruptly. When he sat on the tile, it seemed natural to put the cup by his feet. Standing, however, it made her survival instincts bristle. Those feelings grated against the urgency to touch him, bite him, guide his hand between her thighs—
Josephine gave herself a hard internal shake. Should she bend down to do it, she would be in a vulnerable position, the back of her neck exposed, her center of gravity lowered. But if shehandedhim the cup, she would be putting herself directly in front of him, near enough to grab. Both options made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end.
