He chuckles. “I am someone who should not be tested.” Then, in one easy motion, he whirls me around so that my back is pressed against him.
“I could stop this so easily,” he whispers into my ear. “It would take no effort at all. A flick of the wrist and that little pretty throat of yours would be cut, your blood spilling and covering my floors like a warm blanket…”
Even though my pulse races, something inside me wants to tell him to do it. Do it and get it over with. Death has to be better than this cat-and-mouse game he loves to play.
“But I won’t,” he goes on before I can respond. He eases the blade off me. “I’m quite fond of these floors and you would be no use to me dead.”
Using his fingers, which are still tangled in my hair, he jerks my head back. Pain shoots through my skull, but I press my lips together to prevent myself from crying out. The letter opener runs up to my chin, and then down to the line of my cleavage.
He moves it to my right breast and that’s where the blade slices into my skin. I suck in a sharp breath.
“Will you ever learn?” he asks, pressing his icy lips to my bare shoulder. “We can be so much more than this, my love. You and me together again. It’s what I have waited centuries for.”
Again? My love?What does he mean?
“Malcolm won’t be able to separate us this time. I’ve made sure of it.”
Malcolm?I’ve never heard that name before. What is he talking about?
When his grip loosens, I peer down and see a thin line of blood emerging from his cut. But unlike his, it doesn’t heal over as if by magic. A ruby drop begins to travel down my curves, leaving a dark red trail in its wake.
Before it can hide behind my gown, Henri moves around me lightning fast, dips his head, and glides his tongue over it. A monstrous growl vibrates in his throat.
I try to shove him away, pushing at his shoulders, but his hand snakes up my back to hold me still. He’s too strong to move—made of stone instead of man—so I pound at his back instead with my fists.
His fangs pierce the flesh over the wound, and I cry out.
The pain is immediate but short-lived. As he draws in mouthfuls of my blood, there’s an aching and cramping that plagues me instead, one I recognize all too well from the other times he’s fed from me.
As he continues to drink, my vision grows hazy and my skin prickles with numbness. Soon, all that’s left is the lingering pressure of his hand on my back holding meupright and the booming of my heartbeat in my ears. I can hear it slowing, feel my life draining away, but there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
Suddenly, he pulls away from me, and through half-closed eyes, I watch him lift his head and give me a red-stained smile. Unable to will my body to work, I can do nothing as he sweeps me up into his arms like a child and carries me across the study. My limbs are too heavy, and my head rolls back. Lightning illuminates the room once again, but my vision dims.
As we pass through Henri’s bedroom door, the crow’s shining eyes are the last thing I see before darkness swallows me whole.
Chapter 3
Avrum
Metal clashes, vibrating against my eardrums. Energy from the storm last night crackles all around, and the crowd that’s gathered at the forest edge feeds off it, howling and stomping their feet. I can feel it too, the rising power, the tension before the big release. It’s hard to imagine that it was only hours ago that these men were dressed like perfection when now they stand here egging on the two fighters in the middle of the circle, with shirts undone and smelling of drink.
In the center of the commotion is Lysander. He’s the reason for the crowd’s whooping cheers and the only reason why I ever come to watch these duels. Unlike the spectators, Lysander’s still dressed for a party in dress slacks, a vest, ascot, and brooch. The only sign of anything amiss are the fact that his sleeves are neatly rolled up to his elbows; he isn’t even breaking a sweat.
His thin lips twitch as he circles his brutish opponent,sword out. Could it be…? A smile? It’s such a rarity on him, that I wonder it’s real.
“Come on, Cornelius!” Lysander chides, tossing the sword from one hand to the other. “I think I’ve let this torture go on for long enough.”
Cornelius huffs, a hand protecting his wounded side. For a man of great height and broad shoulders, he moves slowly, clumsily, but there’s a ferocity in his green eyes that tells of his hatred for the man opposite him. I’m sure that if he ever manages to get his hands on Lysander, he won’t leave much behind.
“You talk too much,” he growls, lifting his sword. There is a purple bruise under his right eye that is fading fast. “Oh, how I would love to peel that beautiful blond hair off your scalp.”
Lysander shrugs, unbothered. “It is such words that have gotten you here.Tu es bête comme tes pieds.”
I wince. I don’t know much French, but I have heard him use the insult before.
You’re stupid like your feet.
Cornelius’s eyes widen and then flash black with anger. He flings himself at Lysander, using all his strength to wield his sword.
