Chapter Eighteen
Cordon’s strength wanedas he followed Kitty through the door and into her shop. The oppressive light of the sun beat upon his clothes and singed his skin where it touched, though he was careful to keep his hat tilted when the clouds parted and let the deathly light through.
“I didn’t know you were a cousin to a countess,” Kitty said as she removed her hat and gloves. “She could have returned with us, though I appreciate her pretending she’d be our chaperone. Mother would have objected otherwise.”
He forced a laugh, which rattled in his chest like a coin in a bottle. “Seraphina does as she wishes.”
Which apparently did not include sitting in a cab with them during the trip back to Kitty’s shop. He could not blame Seraphina. She had gone to great lengths to secure a comfortable position, even convincing the Earl of Kilkenny to marry her in a midnight ceremony. The couple had seemed happy, until the earl had leaped from a tower. Cordon had wondered if Seraphina had orchestrated the incident, but he could not deny her grief was genuine. Her husband might not have been her fated mate, but she had loved him in her own way.
Cordon rubbed the bridge of his nose with his index finger and thumb. His vampiric instincts screamed at him to rest. He hadn’t felt so fatigued in years. The only thing that kept him awake was the rich, fruity aroma of Kitty’s blood and theeuphoric knowledge that for the first time in a century, he felt human again.
Kitty had done that, and he loved her for it.
He loved her so much that it hurt.
Yet according to his maker’s journal, she was not his fated mate because the telepathic bond hadn’t formed when he had drunk her blood.
That thought was too painful, so he shoved it aside and grasped for a safer topic. “I take it from your reaction to Mr. Blaylock that you do not approve of him courting your sister.”
Her lips thinned. “He is only pursuing her to intimidate me. The night before you asked me to become your mistress, he demanded I repay the loan he provided to my parents.”
A red haze crept into Cordon’s vision. Mr. Blaylock had intruded on Kitty’s life and caused her distress. For that, he would die. Cordon would track down Blaylock and take the man somewhere quiet. Then he would rip out Blaylock’s throat before tearing him limb from limb. Kitty would never have to know.
The clouds parted outside, sending a beam of light through the window. It landed on his flesh and burned him with a pain so fierce, he cried out, crumpled to the ground, and covered his head.
“Cordon!” She crouched beside him. “What do I do?”
“The sun,” he whispered. “I cannot abide it.”
She ran off. There was a sound of metal screeching against metal. Then blessed darkness, at last.
She returned to his side and tugged his arm. He didn’t want to move, but her pleading voice eventually pierced through his exhaustion, and he struggled to his feet. She shoved him back until he landed in a chair, then she touched something cool and wet to his scorched cheek. The astringent smell of mint cut through the rich, cherry scent of her blood and made him sneeze.
“You should have told me of this affliction sooner,” she said, dabbing his cheek gently with what he assumed was some manner of balm. “Have you always been this way? I have never heard of such an illness.”
Her touch eased the fierce throbbing in his chest. He leaned into her, even though her human medicines would have no effect. The only thing that would undo sun damage was blood.
Herblood.
A large vein pulsed beneath her skin, within inches of his fangs. He could already taste the delicious substance. It would trickle down his throat, restoring his strength.
“You’ve a fever,” Kitty said. Her words were faint and distorted, as if she were underwater.
Her neck was so close, he could make out each droplet of sweat on her skin, and the bright-red and blue veins and arteries pulsing beneath. His fangs descended.
If he drank from her, he wouldn’t be able to stop. He would drain her until she died in his arms.
She tugged at his suit. He didn’t care. If she wanted him naked, then she could have him naked, as long as she offered her blood in exchange.
She opened his jacket and shirt, then gasped.
He looked down. The rash that had started on his back had spread across his chest, from his neck to his hips. His skin resembled the blistered shell of a boiled lobster.
“Oh, God, Cordon,” Kitty said. She was pale and sweaty. Her black hair fell in wet locks around her face.
“It’s not as bad as it looks.” He tucked his shirt back into place, removing the awful rash from his sight. Kitty reached for him but then stopped and left her hand hanging in midair.
“How did this happen?” Kitty asked. “Was it the sun?”
