“What do you mean?” Tavia asked, savoring another bite.
“It tastes like ash,” he replied. The words hung in the air.
“How did it happen?” she asked, her voice softer now, curious if he’d reveal the truth.
“It’s not as exciting as some stories,” he said, his tone lightening. “In fact, it’s a bit embarrassing.”
“Embarrassing? Were you in an improper situation?”
He chuckled a low sound that carried a hint of warmth. “Nothing like that. I was sick. Very sick. The dying kind of sick.”
Tavia cradled her mug, the warmth seeping into her palms as she listened, completely captivated.
“When you have the kind of coin I do, there are certain . . . luxuries. Instead of dying, you can turn.”
“Was it like seeing a medic?” she asked, trying to ease the tension with her tone.
“Something like that,” he replied, tapping his fingers on the table, the sound soft and steady. “There was a doctor of sorts, someone who could turn people for the right price and keep them in a facility until they adjusted—until they learned to control the hunger. From the outside, it looked like a hospital or a temple, a place of healing.”
Wiley squeaked suddenly and scampered onto the table.
Lucius rose, his footsteps near silent against the wooden floor as he crossed to a cabinet. He retrieved a jar, twisted the lid, and poured out a small pile of walnuts. Wiley chirped with delight, hopping eagerly.
“So, I went in, stayed a few months, and here I am.”
“And your family?”
His expression darkened.
“My parents passed long ago. They were too old to have children when they had me. They waited as long as they could before moving on. No siblings, no one to disappoint with my life choices, if that’s what you’re asking.”
A shadow flickered across his features, and his gaze drifted to the scattered walnuts as if they conjured a memory.
Tavia reached out, her fingers brushing against his. “Tell me about them.”
He looked at her, a soft smile breaking through the sorrow.
“They were perfect,” he said. “My father was an artist—a painter. He taught me about expression, creativity, and life itself. I started collecting little things as a child—rocks, shells, flowers. He did well, and I was happy.”
She squeezed his hand, her thumb tracing a faint pattern over his skin, watching the swirl of emotions in his eyes.
“Lucius,” she asked hesitantly, “can vampyres procreate?”
He laughed, the sound breaking the heaviness in the air.
“Well,” he teased, “are we discussing the act or something more?”
“I know you can perform,” she said, her cheeks warming as she focused on the last bite of bread. “But could you mate with someone?”
He leaned closer, a playful smirk curving his lips. “Are you interested?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she replied quickly, pulling her hand back, suddenly feeling foolish for asking the question. “I’m not ready for children. I don’t even have a home.”
“Well, if it were possible, we’d have beautiful children,” he said, a teasing lilt in his voice.
She blushed, looking away.
“But sadly, I believe it’s impossible.”
