Her palm connects with my cheek.
Hard.
The slap rings through the library with the particular resonance of flesh against flesh, pain blossoming across my face in waves that make my eyes water despite centuries of combat conditioning. She put genuine force behind the blow—vampirestrength fueled by Fae indignation, the combination creating impact that actuallyhurtsin ways I'd nearly forgotten sensations could.
My chuckle emerges before I can stop it.
"Ah." I rotate my jaw, testing for damage and finding none despite the impressive sting. "Abuse only turns me on, my Queen."
The groan that escapes her carries frustration profound enough to fill volumes.
"Ugh!"
She pushes off my lap with determination that brooks no argument, hands shoving against my chest with force that would send lesser beings sprawling. I let her go—there's nothing to be gained from restraining her now, and honestly, watching her attempt independent mobility in her current state promises entertainment value.
She makes it two steps.
Then her knees buckle.
The energy transfer helped, but it wasn't enough to fully restore reserves depleted by soul extraction and magical awakening and the general chaos of the past few days. Her body simply isn't ready to support the activities her pride demands, and gravity demonstrates this with the particular inevitability of physical laws that don't care about willpower.
I snap my fingers.
Vines erupt from the floor—my vines, dark blue fading to purple fading to black, roses of midnight and frost blooming along their length as they catch her falling form. They wrap around her with gentleness that contradicts their thorny appearance, cradling her weight, preventing the collision with stone that would have resulted in bruises if not worse.
She squeaks.
The sound is entirely undignified and absolutely adorable—surprise escaping her before composure can reassert itself.
The vines don't simply catch her. They lift, adjusting her position with the particular care of servants attending royalty, raising her from near-fall to comfortable height before smoothly transporting her across the library to the chair I'd prepared at the table's opposite end.
Once she's seated—deposited with care into cushions designed for exactly her dimensions—the vines shift their attention.
A plate appears before her.
My roses curve across the table's surface, thorns retracting to allow leaves and petals to function as serving implements. They select food with intuitive understanding of what she needs—protein-rich meats to rebuild depleted reserves, bread with caloric density to fuel magical recovery, fruits that carry vitamins her hybrid biology requires.
The arrangement takes seconds.
By the time she's oriented herself in the chair, a full meal awaits—steaming, aromatic, perfectly portioned for someone in her current state.
Her expression cycles through speechlessness, stunned disbelief, and the particular confusion of someone trying to process too many impossibilities simultaneously.
Delightful.
Everything about her is absolutely delightful.
"You should eat," I announce, leaning back in my own chair with the particular satisfaction of someone whose plans are proceeding exactly as designed. "I doubt we'll have time to speak more at such a leisurely pace."
Her attention snaps to me, suspicion replacing confusion with speed that speaks to survival instincts honed through Academy trials.
"Why?"
The question carries layers—why eat now, why won't there be time, why everything about this situation that defies explanation.
I simply chuckle, allowing amusement to color my response rather than the genuine concern that underlies it.
"You seem to attract interesting beings," I note, thinking of the shadow tendrils I sensed multiplying in the recovery room, the particular tension that suggests her Duskwalker mate has finally noticed her absence. "But alas, I wouldn't expect less from my Queen."
