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“Thalia.” This time it’s a soft whisper, his gaze searching my sweat-slick face. It still feels as if I can’t breathe. I cough, my chest burning. Drystan helps me into a sitting position, bracing me against the headboard as I continue to hack up a lung.
Can a nightmare give you smoke inhalation?
Drystan waits patiently as my breathing starts to slow and come back to normal and my heart beats less like a jackhammer. My jaw clenches tightly against the surge of emotion that wells up inside me at having him near. He’s all but ignored me for the past few days. They all have. But now he thinks he can come in and play what? A white knight?
His hand comes up to cup my face, but I smack it away with a glare. He’s taken aback for a moment, eyes lighting in disbelief before they darken.
“Is the little lamb looking to be punished?” He growls the words, the sound coming from deep in his chest. “Because I can arrange that.”
“I don’t need anything from you,” I spit, drawing my knees to my chest beneath the covers and folding my arms over them, hugging them tightly.
“It didn’t look like it a moment ago when you were screaming my name and begging me to help you.”
Wait, what?
“Doesn’t matter now,” I tell him petulantly. “You can go.” His glare morphs into a sinister smirk.
“You aren’t the one who gives orders in this house, little lamb.” He leans toward me, invading my space, his lips inches from mine. His breath is warm when he breathes out, the minty scent hitting my nose, causing it to twitch. It’s an odd thing to think that he still breathes out air when his lungs are dead in his chest and the exchange of hemoglobin never takes place. His body doesn’t need oxygen to survive, but it doesn’t stop the air from still circulating through the tubes and channels that are left. The warm air of his breath is a stark contrast to the coldness of the fingers he’s moved to my chin, forcing me to look at him. “I am.”
I remain silent, defiance sparking through me as I glare into the depths of his amber eyes. His touch does something to me I’m not ready to face. Even after four days of being ignored, the simplest feel of his skin on mine sends arousal sweeping through me. I barely know him, yet he lights me on fire in a way I’ve never known.
“Tell me about your dream.” His voice softens just a twinge, but his fingers tighten infinitesimally on my chin, a warning to not fight him.
I think about lying to him, but he’d catch me in a moment. Vampires are living lie detectors. They can sense the change in your heart rate, the speed of your breathing. It’s unfair really. Instead, I settle for a half-truth.
“I was standing on a platform,” I whisper, eyes drawing down to my lap. “There was a crowd of villagers around me, holding torches. They were calling me a witch, and I couldn’t…” A small sob breaks through, my chin quivering in his firm hold. “They’d…”
“They’d sewn your mouth shut,” he says for me. My throat tightens as wetness clings to my lashes. I won’t cry. Not in front of him. Afraid I may break down if I say anything, I nod as best I can in his hold. He takes a deep, full breath before letting it out slowly. “Witch hunters would do that so that their victims couldn’t put anyone under a spell. The practice was more common in Europe than hear in America.”
I clench my fists on the covers at my sides. I read that in the book about Romani witches in the library. They never gave any of the witches time to speak the truth. Prove their innocence. If they were innocent, they’d burn. If they weren’t, the fire wouldn’t touch them. But that was all superstition. A witch can burn as easily as a human. Same as a vampire. There is no coming back from being burned alive, even for the undead.
“Tell me about my mother’s family.” My voice is soft, and my throat is still tender from all the screaming and coughing.
“You don’t need to worry about them,” Drystan sneers as he releases my chin and leans back and away from me.
“They’re my family,” I tell him defiantly. “I know nothing about them, save what Asher told me.” I almost miss the flare of anger that rises in his eyes at the mention of my conversation with Asher. It’s gone nearly as quickly as it came, but I saw it.
The Kings aren’t all on the same page when it comes to me, apparently.
“Don’t go looking for answers you won’t like, Thalia,” he whispers, but it has a sharp, deadly edge to it.
“What about Grégoire Saint Clair?”
Drystan stiffens, his jaw tightening as he looks at me. “Where did you hear that name?”
It feels like I’m treading into dangerous waters without a paddle, but I don’t care. I need to know where I come from. What it all means.
Lifting my chin, I say, “Origines du Dhampir.”
One of his eyebrows lifts slightly in surprise when I say the name of the book I found my ancestor’s name in. “You’re full of surprises, little lamb.” He doesn’t answer my question, though. Instead, he stands from the bed and walks to the door.
“You owe me an answer, Drystan.” The vampire pauses at the threshold, his shoulders stiffening for a moment before they relax. He looks back at me with a sneer painted across his lips.
“Just because you sucked my dick and my brother’s made you come doesn’t mean I owe you anything, Thalia,” he hisses. The words shouldn’t cause my heart to ache like it was stabbed, but they do. “You aren’t my guest. You are collateral. Now, go back to bed and stop crying over silly dreams.”
I flinch as the door to my prison slams shut. This time, I hear the snick of the lock. A final fuck-you to me, reminding me of my place in this house.
Bastard.
