The nectar of the gods,I thought grimly.And I am no god.
It was intoxicating. Her scent still clung to me—soap, sugar, and the faint trace of iron beneath her skin. The bond between us pulsed like a second heartbeat, humming through my veins.
I shifted on the couch, trying to adjust the very mortal reaction she had provoked in me. Centuries of self-control, undone by a woman in miniscule pantaloons covered with fruit.
And then she walked back in.
Her cheeks were flushed, her hair a little wild, her heartbeat a steady rhythm I could hear from across the room.
I shifted again, crossing one leg over the other in what I hoped passed for composure. The sweet scent of her arousal still lingered, impossible to ignore in its headiness. My fangs achedin response, and my borrowed trousers were becoming entirely too tight.
She avoided my eyes, marched to the far end of the couch, and turned the talking box on again without a word. The light gleamed across her face, softening it, making her look younger. Vulnerable, even.
We sat in silence, watching the strange moving picture unfold.
Within minutes, her head tilted, her eyelids fluttered, and she fell asleep, remote still in hand, breathing evenly and unguarded.
I turned my head slowly, unable to stop looking at her.
Asleep, she was softer. The tension that usually animated her melted away, revealing something delicate beneath all the intensity.
She was, without contest, the most beautiful creature I had ever seen in all my years.
Her breathing filled the quiet room, steady and soothing. The bond between us settled into perfect calm. My body, already relaxed from the feeding, went still in a way I hadn’t experienced in centuries.
Carefully, I eased closer and guided her down so her head rested in my lap. She murmured faintly but didn’t wake.
I forced myself to focus on the moving picture.
At first, I despised it. It was absurd. The humans were lying, blundering, falling in love by accident. But the longer I watched, the more I found myself invested. The heroine’s loneliness, her quiet hope for belonging… it was familiar. Painfully so.
By the time the final act unfolded, something in my chest cracked open. A single tear escaped. I wiped it away immediately, scowling at my own weakness.
“Emotionally unstable,” I muttered. “Is this what breaks Lord Cristian D’Archeval? Sandra Bullock?”
When the credits rolled, I glanced down at Nadia again. Her breathing was still slow and steady. Her hand had drifted close to my knee, fingers curled as if she was reaching for me in sleep.
Her scent hit me again—salt and skin and summer—and I clenched my jaw, forcing restraint.
The bond pulled at me with a steady pressure. It reacted to the smallest shift in her body. It told me she was sinking deeper into rest, unguarded in a way that made something inside me tighten. Leaving her there felt wrong. The couch offered no support for her neck. Her head rested at an angle that strained the muscles along her shoulder. Her pulse beat an uneven rhythm.
She should not remain here.
Exhaling quietly, I slipped one arm under her knees and another behind her back. She stirred but did not wake as I lifted her. Her body relaxed against mine in a way that caught me off guard. Her warmth pressed against my chest.
Her scent reached me again. Salt and skin and summer. I clenched my jaw and held my control.
I carried her to her room. Each step was a deliberate acknowledgment of a shift I did not want to examine yet. The bond steadied with every movement, as if it approved. As if this was the correct place for her.
I laid her gently on the bed, pulling the blanket over her shoulders. She sighed, turning toward the sound of my breath.
“Cristian,” she murmured, half-asleep.
I froze. The sound of my name in her voice undid me completely.
For a heartbeat, I hovered there—close enough to brush a strand of hair from her cheek, close enough to betray myself. My hand lifted of its own accord… then stopped, suspended in the air between us.
No.
