Up close, the apples are even darker—so red they look black in the shade— their skins glossy and almost slick. Something about them feels heavier…more intense somehow, than the other fruit in the orchard. The air around these trees smells different too—richer and iron-tinged—with a sweetness underneath.
Alfred picks one for us carefully and slices it open and I see that the flesh inside is blood red. Not pink…not ruby, it’s actually the color of fresh blood.
When he hands me a slice of it, I hesitate.
“Does it… taste like blood?” I ask.
“Naturally, my Lady,” Marilla says gently. “But it’s sweet blood—you’ll like it. Go on. Give it a try.”
Hanna and I exchange a look.
Well, I think, when in Rome… or vampire country.
We each take a bite and I’m immediately surprised.
The Pomme de sang is crisp, like a perfect apple should be, but the flavor is unlike anything I’ve ever tasted. There’s a faint metallic note—iron, unmistakably—but it’s wrapped in sweetness and salt—balanced and bright.
It reminds me weirdly of salted caramel, except fresher…sharper…more alive somehow.
“Hm…” Hanna murmurs, frowning thoughtfully. “That’s not bad.”
“I like it,” I say, surprised by my own reaction. “I want to bring some of these back to Lucian.”
“Oh, it would be our honor to supply his Lordship with as many Pomme de sang as your carriage can carry!” Marilla exclaims.
For a split second, I picture the carriage absolutely stuffed with apples, Hanna and I wedged in between baskets like produce delivery girls. That would not make for a comfortable ride home.
“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” I say quickly. “Just let me find a few really good ones for him to savor as a gift.”
“Of course, my Lady—whatever you wish,” Alfred says.
We spend a while longer picking, selecting the darkest, ripest Pomme de sang—the ones that feel heavy and perfect in my hands. But the whole time, my thoughts keep drifting back to Lucian.
What is he doing right now? Is he deep in negotiations? Scowling at some ledger? Missing me at all?
I tell myself not to think like this. Not to act like he’s my boyfriend—or my husband.
He kidnapped you, I remind myself. You didn’t choose this.
But I still want to bring him something nice. Giving gifts is one of my love languages. Which is probably the worst possible trait to have when you’re abducted by a Vampire Don and trying not to fall for him.
Maybe I just have the worst case of Stockholm syndrome ever.
Or maybe… I just miss him.
The realization settles warm and dangerous in my chest as I tuck another perfect Pomme de sang into my basket and wonder what he’ll think of my gift and if he’s missing me right now.
51
Jules
After we finish picking apples, Alfred wipes his hands on his trousers and gestures toward the antique barn behind us.
“Now then, my Ladies,” he says cheerfully, “perhaps you’d like to step inside the shop.”
Marilla links her arm through his, smiling.
“We do have more than apples, after all.”
