Raphael set the book on a table to his left. “Now you need to drink.”
I recoiled. “I just drank yesterday.” Had ripped his throat apart. The memory of his flesh, the brutal remains of my feeding, hit me with equal pangs of disgust . . . and worse, hunger.
I looked at the spot. Even with my enhanced vision, the skin looked unbroken, healed as if nothing had ever happened.
“You must drink every day,” Raphael said. His tone left no room for argument, but of course I argued anyway.
“I thought vampires didn’t have to drink that often.” The book I’d read on vampires when I’d come to Damerel said vampires didn’t need to drink daily, often closer to weekly. They could feed at any time, but they would be no worse without. I struggled to recall all the details—it had seemed like only minutes since I’d been sitting in the cell, bracing for the true death.
“You must drink every day,” he repeated. “Fledglings need to drink more regularly, as they’re still weak from the transition.”
“I thought since you turned me, I’d be stronger,” I said, anxiously throwing his words back at him. Surely there was some way to postpone this. In truth, drinking blood was the least of my concerns, but with Raphael scrutinizing me, I didn’t dare let my thoughts betray me any further.
“It means your thirst will be even greater.” He rose and sat at the edge of the bed, level with me. “You have two choices. You can have my blood, or I can bring you donor blood from a bottle.”
I almost wilted with relief. “I don’t need to drink from a living person?”
Raphael’s expression gentled. “Eventually, you will. But no, not now. It’s dangerous for fledglings to drink from the vein.”
I remembered the way I’d taken deep pulls from Raphael, with no regard for him or anything in the world but my need to quench the thirst. Gods, if that had been Thea . . .
But it hadn’t been. It had been Raphael, who was strong enough to survive the hunger he’d cursed me with.
“Fine. Give me the donor blood,” I said, defeated.
Raphael rose from the bed, left the bedroom, and returned seconds later with a goblet. The solid gold rim didn’t hide the scent that wafted over. The thirst clawed at me, summoned by the coppery tang in the air. It wasn’t like hunger or thirst I’d had as a human—it was some in-between sensation that had me tensing my muscles to stop from springing up and snatching it from him.
Raphael sat by me on the bed again, closer this time. His thigh pressed against mine, only the blanket between us. He offered the goblet to me.
I stared at it for a long moment.
“Drink,” he ordered.
In an instant, the stem was between my fingers. The rim was almost to my lips when I regained my senses and pulled my arm away, shaking my head.
“You can thrall me? Even though I’m a vampire?” I growled. I’d felt the same compulsion in the cell.
Raphael didn’t look away, not ashamed in the slightest. “I cannot thrall you as a vampire, nor have I ever been able to. But as your sire, I can give you a light . . . nudge,” he settled on. “At least toward actions meant to aid in your survival. Like drinking blood before it congeals. Believe me when I say that’s not a texture you’ll enjoy. My duty as your sire is to look out for your best interests. Now, drink.”
The repeated command didn’t have the mystical compulsion, but the threat of blood somehow becoming more disgusting was enough for me to press the blood to my lips. I squeezed my eyes shut and took a sip.
Yuck. I spat out the blood the moment it grazed my tongue.
The blood splattered over Raphael’s clean, crisp white shirt. He didn’t so much as flinch.
“I can’t drink this,” I said, hating how speaking made me taste it anew. It was slimy, unpleasant, almost like a concentrated vinegar and ammonia mix. “This is foul. It must be bad already.”
Raphael’s lips twisted. “It’s fresh.”
I thrust the goblet at him. “You try it, then.”
He accepted and took a swallow. I watched the knot on his throat bob with far too much interest, my eyes dancing over the pulse point in his neck. He handed it back to me and was kind enough to pretend he hadn’t seen me studying him. “There’s nothing wrong with the blood.”
I dipped my tongue in the blood. It was as foul as it had been a moment ago. “Is it always this bad?” I asked. “I know you said heating it doesn’t make a difference, but . . . surely it’s not meant to be this awful?”
Raphael gave me a look I couldn’t decipher. “It’s this or my vein.”
Memories of drinking from his neck in a frenzy assailed me. My fangs ached. Would he taste like this now? Had he only tasted good because of the bloodlust? Or did blood straight from the vein taste better than this? This tasted like a punishment from the third hell.
