“Anything. Do anything. I don’t care—as long as it helps.”
His gaze darkens—not with hunger, but with focus and something that looks like devotion.
“Very well,” he murmurs. “Just relax my darling and let me ease you.”
And for the first time all night, I let myself believe that maybe—just maybe—I don’t have to endure this alone.
41
Lucian
I know before she says a word.
I smell the change in her—subtle but unmistakable—woven through the sweetness of her Sanguis Vita like a darker thread. The monthly tide of blood that human women are taught to fear, to hide, to apologize for is coming.
Julia got defensive when I first mentioned it, which is unsurprising. She has lived among humans her whole life, absorbing their quiet shame and whispered rules. Don’t speak of it. Don’t let anyone know. It’s dirty, wrong, shameful…
The thought angers me—there is nothing dirty or unworthy about her. To me, she is perfect.
This time of blood is simply another facet of her body—another rhythm written into her flesh. And in truth, the Sanguis Vita is stronger now—more concentrated, more potent. If she allows me, I can draw the pain down and away from her, easing the ache that coils inside her belly like a clenched fist.
But she must choose it—my blood magic does not work through force—it never has.
She lies curled on the bed now, tension etched into every line of her body despite the warmth of the bath I drew for her. Her face is pale, and her eyes are too bright. I can feel the pain in her, grinding and heavy.
I want to take it from her—to ease that ache I sense her feeling. Not only for my hunger—though the taste of her blood tempts me in ways I can barely contain—but because I cannot bear to see my beloved suffer.
When I first began scouting the Human Realm, my purpose was singular…cold…calculated. I sought a Curvy Queen because her blood would cure the blood lust that has plagued my line since my father’s folly. I told myself that was all I wanted.
In the beginning, Julia was just a resource…a solution to my problem… a means to an end.
But she shattered that illusion the moment I had Whistler bring her over and she looked at me with defiance in her lovely eyes. She is warmth and wit and quiet courage. She fills every room she enters—not with noise, but with her presence.
She is everything I never knew I wanted.
And now I find myself aching—not with hunger, but with the desire to be trusted.
I wish she would look at me and believe that I want to care for her…that I want to ease her pain simply because it pains me to see her hurt. I want her to lower the walls she has built so carefully around herself and let me inside—not her body, but her heart.
To know her.
To be chosen.
I kneel beside the bed, watching her breathe, waiting. I will not move unless she asks. My power is great, but my restraint must be greater still.
She gasps as another wave of pain takes her, her fingers curling into the sheets. I place my hand gently over her lower abdomen, not pressing, only warming.
“My poor little one,” I murmur. “Let me help you.”
She looks at me then—really looks at me—and in her eyes I see fear, vulnerability, and something else. Hope, perhaps.
She does not yet know what I am asking.
I pray that when she does, she will still choose me.
Because if she allows me to taste her now, to draw the blood and magic together and ease her suffering, it will bind us in a way no vow ever could. Not through force. Not through ownership.
Through trust.
