Corabeth was mesmerized. She felt her heart pump her own lifeblood into Rooke, the pain only perceivable now when he sucked to get more out of her. But Corabeth found the pain easy to ignore in favor of other things. For instance, the feel of Rooke’s lips on her skin, the way his tongue moved against her, the strange intimacy of this moment.
As if her body had a mind of its own, she leaned closer to Rooke until his head rested against her stomach, only the thin fabric of her nightgown separating them. Slowly, she brought her other hand up and placed it on his head. Slid it down his hair again and again. Like a mother feeding its young.
When Rooke unlatched and looked up at her, she didn’t know if she was dizzy from the blood loss or from the startling realization that she liked seeing her blood on Rooke’s lips.
“Thank you, Corabeth,” he said, his relief apparent in his eyes.
Corabeth could only stare in awe, her lips parted as her chest rose and fell in quick succession.
“You’re alright now?” she finally asked, remembering she should probably say something.
Rooke had pulled a clean, white handkerchief from his pocket and placed it on the four puncture wounds that were still bleeding slightly. A familiar calm had returned to his movements.
“Yes, thanks to you,” he said and placed Corabeth’s other hand on the piece of cloth to hold it in place. “Are you alright?”
“Yes, perfectly,” she said too quickly. Now that the moment was over, she felt awkward. As if Rooke might look at her and see through her in a single breath. As if her blood inside of him might reveal the kind of thoughts she’d had during the feeding.
Rooke’s eyes were no longer a reflection of his hunger as he searched her face for something. Forgiveness, perhaps. Corabeth was too lost in her own turmoil to give it, her heart beating too loudly in her ears. She missed the moment Rooke dropped his gaze, his shoulders stiffening. The way he looked away with regret.
“You should rest,” he said and rose, forcing Corabeth to take a step back, “I can walk you to your room.”
“No need,” she said, pulled out of her daze long enough, “Good night.”
Corabeth simply turned and walked away, still holding the handkerchief to her wrist.
Nineteen
Rooke
Rooke haunted his own home, but there was no reprieve. Corabeth had permeated the manor. Had permeatedhim. She was in the walls, the floors, her presence everywhere. Her blood was a living thing inside him now—scalding, stirring.
There was a constant pull towards her. Rooke would be on the other side of the manor, busying himself with this or that, blink, and all at once find himself outside Corabeth’s door, listening to her steady breaths as she slept.
He allowed himself a single daydream that he often lost himself to. In this daydream, he holds Corabeth’s wrist to his lips. Imagines away the nightdress that separated them. Corabeth’s eyes are sure, inviting, not a trace of the fear he had seen after feeding on her.
A groan wanted to escape his chest, but he kept it in. He didn’t remember all from the past centuries, even less from his life before the curse. But he remembered this feeling now. It was accompanied by flashes of him at fifteen. A pretty servant girl. Shy looks. The jolt of excitement when a look was returned.
The feeling was something tender, delicate, but brought with it an ugliness. His father’s steely eyes when he caught them. The girl’s back, whipped bloody. Eyes that never met his again.
Now, there was no father to punish them. But this feeling, like everything else, was tainted by the curse. Already, it twisted it, turned it into something grotesque, something to be ashamed of.Rooke wanted to crawl out of his own skin to get away from it. He would not let it taint Corabeth as well.
If he had been a stronger man, he would have stuffed her pockets with gold and sent her away. She could still have a life, live out her days in comfort. She needn’t be tied to his misery.
But her blood clawed at him from the inside. Like a bramble spreading through his veins, pushing its thorns into him. It clung to him just as much as Rooke clung to Corabeth.
Lost in thought, Rooke’s hands moved almost as if by themselves as he prepared a breakfast. Two slices of toasted bread—one with a fried egg, one with the raspberry preserve Corabeth loved so much. It was all she smelled of in the past weeks.
He set the plate on a tray next to the pot of freshly brewed chamomile tea. In the corner of the tray was a small vase with a single pale rose, long wilted.
Corabeth would need her strength to recover from the blood loss. She had fallen into a deep sleep after the feeding. Rooke knew because he had again listened behind her door, half-expecting to hear her weeping, so great had the shock on her face been afterwards.
Rooke carried the tray upstairs and into Corabeth’s room, where she still slept. He moved so silently, she did not even stir when he placed the tray on her bedside table. As he turned, his eyes snagged on the rose. Disgust reared in him, and he swiped it from the tray.
A pathetic attempt to show himself as something else.Look, it screamed,I am more than a monster who would feed on you. I care, and I nurse, and I protect.
Rooke told himself he would leave immediately, that he would not linger. But then his eyes caught on Corabeth’s peaceful face and her hair splayed on the sheets like blacklightning against a white sky. There was no trace of the terror he had instilled in her.
All over again, the loathing rose. At himself, at his weakness. He never should have surrendered and allowed himself to drink from Corabeth. She was supposed to remain untouched by the curse. He would not allow it again. Even if it meant separating himself from her.
