“You kidnapped me from my wedding, and now you tell me I must guess your name to be free of you. There must be a catch.” I scraped my fork against the fine china.
He cleared his throat, offering his glass out to the air to be refilled. “No catch.”
“There mustbe. What sane person kidnaps someone on their wedding day?”
“Perhaps I am not a sane man.” He smirked. “I simply want what I want, and I take what I please. Besides, it was not as if you enjoyed the arrangement. You looked as if you were ready to run.”
“So, it is a pity that I am here.”
The graveyard encounter, night in the garden—all before I learned what he was, had repeated in my mind. I envisioned over the course of what it would’ve been like to taste those soft, delicate lips. Yet the embarrassment plagued me as much as the fear of the man.
I held my hand, the ring glinting under candlelight. “Pity is it that I wear your ring and now shall suffer at your whims.”
“Not pity, no—never pity.”
“Then, why? Why me and not—”
The pressure in my chest mounted. Groping for the cloth napkin, I affixed it to my lips. With my head spinning from the pressure, the world came into focus when I spotted a familiar handkerchief from the corner of my eyes.
The man held it firmly between pale, slender fingers, dried blood upon the pink fabric as evidence of the illness. One that could not be avoided.
Burnt gold studied me as I snatched the cloth. “Where did you get that?” I wheezed, body tensing once more despite the ache.
The cough became harder to choke it down as another fit erupted. I pushed away from the table, thecloth firmly pressed as fresh blood splattered onto it. I panted as my lungs relented once more to force air through them.
I stumbled back, black spots danced in my vision. The ground tilted until I was falling. The warm embrace of arms caught me, and the intense aroma draped me until the sharpness of his face angled to mine.
“How long have you been sick?” he rasped.
I pushed him away, struggling to get to my feet as the next fit came. The man grabbed my wrist, the blood on my palm in plain view.
“I asked you a question, Valeria.” Grip tightening, he darted between the blood and my startled face, pulling me close against his chest. “How long!”
“You’re hurting me,” I croaked.
Ebony floated through, white and willowy, encircling us. Gentle and careful, she said, “Master, you’re scaring the young woman. I am sure she’d be willing to answer your question if you let her.” Ebony placed a chilling hand on my wrist, a cold phantom touch seeping into the searing heat of his grip.
The man sighed, tension releasing from my wrist as his hold slackened enough where he held me with curled fingers. My own body betrayed me, and heat burned across my cheeks as he leaned in.
“So, care to be truthful, Little Dove?”
“A while,” I whispered. “At worst, I won’t last the season. At best, it’s torment. So, please—let it go.”
His gaze softened, taking those curled fingers against my wrist and bringing my palm upwards.
“What are you doing!” I fought, his tongue lapping up the blood stained upon my palm in even strokes.
A chill crept up my spine as his tongue left my palm wet but clean of crimson.
“Master!” Ebony chastised, swirling about us. “That is uncalled for!”
I retracted my hand, cradling it to my chest, trying to keep my breathing even.
“There,” he said, placing his hands behind him and licking his lips. “Would you like to guess my name tonight?”
I shook my head. “No, I’d like to go to my room! Good night, demon!” I stomped off.
Fatigue washed over me, my body becoming heavier with every step I took toward the door. The ache in my lungs wheezed against my chest as another fit threatened to run loose.
