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“What do you want?” He sounds impatient, yet I can feel in the bond that he hates the thought of me asking anyone else for something he could give me.
“Your blood.”
His crimson eyes lock onto mine. “Why?”
I have rehearsed this. Not consciously, not with planned words, but the reasoning has been building in the back of my mind since the moment I saw Arlo’s wounds and smelled the infection creeping through his torn skin.
“Some of the patients aren’t responding to the herbs alone,” I say. “The fevers break and come back within hours. The chest infections are deep, and the poultices can only draw so much. Vampire blood heals. I just find it odd that so many vampires are here, yet no one thinks to use their blood to heal the people who are sick.” I hold his gaze because looking away now would be the same as confessing.
“Because it’s forbidden,” Kylian answers, and my brows furrow.
“Even if a few drops mixed into a tincture could make the difference between the children recovering and their conditions worsening.”
“Because Vampire blood doesn’t heal someone alone, it can change them. We have no way of telling how close someone is to death.”
The weight of what he’s telling me isn’t lost on me. The cursed crowns, the careful balance between kingdoms, the wars that have already been fought over territory and resources and power. Adding uncontrolled vampires to that landscape would be catastrophic.
“I understand,” I say, and I mean it, even if the application I have in mind is different from the one he’s imagining. “I would never give it to someone on death’s door. It would only be a few drops, diluted and mixed into the tinctures. Nothing concentrated enough to risk a turning.”
“A few drops,” he repeats, and the way he says it tells me he is measuring the gap between what I am asking for and what I might actually need. I hold my breath without meaning to and force myself to exhale slowly so he doesn’t hear the stutter in it. “A few drops is all it takes to turn someone on the brink of death. The risk isn’t worth it.”
“Fine. I’ll get some another way then,” I mutter, moving to grab my shoes, but he is in front of me before I even take a step, and I bump directly into him.
“I said no.”
“I’m not asking you to give enough to do anything but speed healing and save many children a lot of suffering.” I stare up at him. “You can watch me use it or take it back if you want. I don’t care, just . . . I can’t watch people die when there’s something we haven’t tried.”
The bond flickers, hot and agitated, pushing at my ribs from the inside, and I am not sure who is angrier, me at his refusal, or him because I asked.
“Fine . . . Don’t give it to anyone knocking on death’s door. Even a couple drops can turn them if they’re close enough to the edge.”
“I know,” I say. “I’d never . . . I know.”
He’s already turned away, running a hand through his hair, muscles tense, not looking at me. I just stand there as he moves to the small table and grabs a knife and one of the empty glasses. He hands me the glass, and I take it, then he also passes me the knife. My brows scrunch as he forces it into my hand.
“You said you needed it?” he says finally.
“Yes, Kylian, I need it.”
He offers me his palm, and my eyes dart from it to the knife in my hand. “You want me to cut you? Can’t you just . . .”
“If you want my blood, then you’ll do it.”
The knife in my hand is heavier than it should be. I stare at it. Then at his hand, palm up, fingers spread, waiting.
This is insane. Why does it feel like a test, like if I hesitate he’s going to take it all back and shut me out completely?
I grip the handle tighter.
“Okay,” I say, though my voice shakes. “Give me your hand.”
He doesn’t flinch or even look away. This is stupid. I know he’ll heal. I’m not squeamish. I’ve seen plenty of blood in my lifetime, yet the thought of deliberately cutting someone has me wanting to throw up.
“I’m waiting,” Kylian says, and angry tears blur my vision. He should know through the bond that I can’t do it.
He’s so infuriating. He could do this himself. He could probably snap the blade with two fingers. Instead, he wants to see if I’m the kind of person who will cut him for my own purposes. Maybe he’s testing the bond. Maybe he’s just an asshole. Either way, my stomach twists. Cursing, I shove the glass toward him, ready to leave empty-handed. He grabs the blade of the knife that is still in my hand.
“You can’t cut me, yet you would consider refusing the bond tying you to me?” He squeezes the knife, and I gasp as blood runs down the blade and handle. He moves the glass under his shaking hand, clutching the blade tighter. His blood moves over my fingers, pouring into the glass.
