Tiny dips of their tips that convey understanding and agreement, and I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing at the absurdity of having a silent conversation with someone's semi-autonomous shadow appendages.
I glance down at the blanket covering my body—soft material that someone draped over me during my unconsciousness, warmth that I hadn't fully registered until now.
An idea forms.
I gesture toward the blanket, then toward Cassius, miming the act of covering him.
The tendrils seem to consider this for a moment before moving with coordinated purpose. They lift the blanket from my body with surprising gentleness, the material passing from my coverage to theirs with the fluid efficiency of beings who have done this sort of thing before. Then they carry it across the space between us, settling it over Cassius's shoulders with care that makes my chest ache.
He seems to relax further at the added warmth, some remaining tension in his frame easing, his breathing deepening into something more peaceful.
I smirk.
Adorable.
The big bad Duskwalker, tucked in by his own shadow tendrils at his bond mate's request.
I'm never going to let him live this down.
But first, I need to accomplish something more practical.
I assess my physical state with clinical attention—checking systems the way someone might check a machine after extensive repairs. My limbs respond when commanded, though with sluggishness that suggests recovery is ongoing. My head aches faintly, pressure behind my eyes that speaks to magical depletion. My stomach?—
Gods.
The emptiness hits with sudden, violent clarity.
Hungry.
Not just hungry—starving.
When did I last eat?
The question has no clear answer, which is answer enough. However long I've been unconscious, however much magic has been working to restore my depleted reserves, my body needs fuel that arcane energy alone cannot provide.
I swing my legs over the pod's edge, pausing to ensure the motion doesn't trigger another wave of dizziness. When itdoesn't—or at least, when the dizziness remains manageable—I lower my feet to the floor and slowly stand.
No fainting.
That's a good sign.
The floor is cool beneath my bare feet, smooth material that might be stone or might be something else entirely. I take a moment to stabilize, to confirm that my legs will actually support my weight, before turning my attention to the room's contents.
A mini fridge occupies one corner.
The sight of it triggers an immediate Pavlovian response—mouth watering, stomach growling, instincts recognizing a potential source of sustenance. I cross the space with more speed than caution probably warrants, kneeling before the small refrigeration unit and pulling it open with hands that tremble slightly from hunger.
Blood packs.
Rows of them, neatly organized, labels indicating type and date and whatever other information the Academy considers relevant for feeding its vampire population.
Relief washes through me as I grab one, tearing into the packaging with fangs that extend without conscious command. The instinct is pure, primal, the vampire part of my hybrid nature demanding sustenance after too long without.
The first taste hits my tongue.
And I immediately cringe.
What the?—
