It comes to me suddenly that—for the first time in hours—I’m not completely naked. I didn’t realize how much I missed the feeling of being covered until I have it again and my eyes start stinging for no good reason.
“Are you all right, lovely one?” Lucian gives me a worried look. “Let me carry you to the bedchamber.”
“No,” I say, sniffing and refusing to cry. “Thanks but I’m fine now—I can walk.”
I take one step…and the world tilts. My knees feel like Jell-O, and I start to go over.
Lucian sweeps me up before gravity can drag me down. One arm under my knees, the other at my back, he cradles me against him. I get that dark, spicy scent again, plus the steady thud of his heart when my cheek presses against his chest.
“There now—you’re safe,” he rumbles, and his words seem to vibrate my entire body.
“I just want to go home,” I whisper, looking up at him. “Back to my apartment…back to Mr. Mittens. Back to rent and spreadsheets and mediocre coffee and office drama and Book Club.”
He meets my gaze as he carries me toward an arched doorway draped with velvet. His eyes are cool storm-gray again—no red. I see nothing but resolve in his steady gaze.
“You can leave the bath, lovely one,” he says softly. “But you cannot leave the Crimson Spires.”
My stomach sinks.
“Lucian—”
“You are mine now. Mine.” There’s no heat in his voice—no drama. Just absolute certainty. “You belong to me—I will not let you go.”
I shut my eyes because the room is spinning and also because if I look at him I might do something stupid, like believe him.
Or worse—want to.
19
Lucian
Julia doesn’t believe me.
I see it in her eyes, sharp as knives behind the pleading. She thinks this is a dream, or worse—some trick. She doesn’t yet understand what she is, what I see when I look at her.
And she has no idea how beautiful she is.
I think I understand why. The Crimson Eye showed me long ago—how human men treat women like her. They look past them. They sneer. They hunger only for brittle bones and hollow frames, and in their blindness, they discard what is most valuable.
Idiots.
How can I make Julia understand? Her softness is power. Her abundance is life. Every curve, every roll, every stretch mark is beauty carved by the Gods.
I will show her that until she cannot deny it.
I already gave her my blood—that is no small thing. The Brand I carry burned when I cut myself, because the act was more than simple healing—it was part of the old rite, the ritual meant to bind two souls together. I should have waited for a ceremony. But when she lay there in the tub, her lips blue, her body shivering with cold… it felt right to press my wrist to her mouth and let her taste me.
It felt right to give this part of myself to her.
The sound she made when she swallowed—soft, startled pleasure—will haunt me.
I want more.
Not just want—need. My hunger gnaws at me, deeper than the Thirst, craving more than just blood. It is her I crave. The thought of touching her, of burying myself in the heat of her body, makes my cock ache in the confines of my trousers.
I imagine her stretched across my bed, her lovely thick thighs parted just for me, her breasts rising as she gasps. I want to take her nipples between my lips and feel them stiffen against my tongue. I want to suck them deep into my mouth until she arches and moans my name. I want to mark them with my teeth, to tease them with my fangs—just enough to make her gasp.
And then I will go lower.
