I glance at Hanna, still asleep, and lower my voice.
“Not here—I don’t want to wake Hanna up.”
“All right. Come to my rooms with me.”
I take a step—and stumble.
The floor seems to lurch beneath my feet, my balance completely shot, and suddenly I’m not sure I can stand at all.
“Here—we can’t have you falling, little one.”
Before I can protest, Lucian scoops me up into his arms.
The contact is immediate and overwhelming. His chest is warm and solid beneath me, his arms strong and sure as he carries me out of the room. His scent surrounds me—dark spice and heat and something uniquely him—and my body reacts instantly, a sharp, needy pulse shooting straight through me.
Oh no! is the thought that shoots through my head as I try to clamp down on my instinctive reaction. This isn’t right, to be feeling like this. Not with Hanna in such bad shape and it’s all my fault!
My skin feels too sensitive, my breath too shallow, every nerve suddenly awake and longing for him. I press my face briefly against his broad shoulder, trying to hide the way my body is betraying me.
What kind of illness makes you dizzy and horny at the same time? I wonder.
I have no answer.
Only the growing, undeniable awareness that whatever is happening to me is not just in my head—and that my body is beginning to need him in a way I’ve never felt before.
And I don’t know what I’m supposed to do about it.
59
Lucian
The moment I set her down in my chambers, I know. Not with certainty at first—but with instinct. I can smell it on her—the need that makes her scent so hot and her feet so unsteady.
Julia stands in the center of the room as though she’s afraid to move, cheeks flushed, breathing shallow. Her pulse is racing—I can hear it, can scent it beneath the remnants of fear and wine. There is heat clinging to her skin, a restless energy rolling off her in waves that makes my fangs ache faintly despite my earlier feeding.
I smell desire—strong and almost desperate. What’s happening to her to make her feel this way?
I close the door behind us and turn to face her fully.
“Sit,” I say gently.
She obeys at once, perching on the edge of the chaise as though the velvet upholstery itself is too much sensation against her skin. She presses her thighs together unconsciously, fingers curling in the fabric of her skirts.
There it is again—the evidence of her need.
“Tell me exactly how you’re feeling, little one,” I say, keeping my voice calm, measured. “Do not leave out any details.”
Her eyes widen.
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.” I give her a stern look. “Tell me.”
She shifts a little, nibbling her lower lip nervously.
“I—Lucian—this is really awkward.”
“I know.” I crouch before her so we are eye level. “But I cannot help you unless I understand what is happening.”
