He slid an arm around her waist and drew her against him, then cupped her cheek with his hand, his gaze unwavering. “I love you, Cally,” he said, and she couldn’t remember the last time he’d used her name. “If this makes you a thrall, I swear on my soul that I will never abuse that connection.”
She nodded jerkily, the world narrowing to him alone. “I know.”
He brushed her lips with his, then trailed kisses around to the side of her neck. She closed her eyes, tilted her head to the side, anticipating the sting of his bite. It was sharp when it came, and she drew a quick breath. The rush of pleasure made her swallow her moan, though it was not as intense as when they were making love. He didn’t take much, drawing back after only a moment, then he licked over the wound to heal it.
She took a steadying breath, her hand braced against his chest. “Now we need your blood,” she said. It came out huskily, and she cleared her throat. “Neck, or inner thigh?” she asked, trying to ease the tension. Her tension.
“Your choice, but you may find the wrist easier.”
“Wrist, then.”
He held out his forearm, then used the edge of his thumbnail to cut into his own skin, the blood welling up swiftly. She ran her finger through it, leaving a crimson smear, then slipped her hand inside her silk robe. It seemed natural to use a circle, as she had for the strength spell. She traced the shape over her heart. “I have to anoint you. I guess that means you get a circle too.”
Antoine pulled up his T-shirt without question, and she bit her lip at the sight of his firm abs and bare chest. He really was easy on the eyes. She took more blood from his wrist and traced a matching mark on his skin.
“I already feel more connected to you,ma chérie.”
She gave him a nervous smile. This was the part she hadn’t been looking forward to. “Now I have to drink.”
He raised his arm in offering, like a waiter with a glass of wine, and she took it in both hands. A drop of blood ran down from the cut, over his arm, and dripped onto the black robe he’d lent her, leaving a dark smear on the silk.
“When you are ready,” he prompted gently, and she realized she’d been staring at his blood.
She leaned over his arm, lifting it to her mouth.
His blood was warm and salty, metallic and viscous. It filled her mouth like oil, and she forced herself to swallow. It didn’t get any better for the second mouthful.That must be enough.
Cally released him and turned so he couldn’t see, then wiped her mouth. She hadn’t been as tidy as he always was, and the back of her hand came away marked with a crimson smear.
But it was done. Her blood was inside him, his inside hers. Now all she needed were the words—and the intent:give him some of my power.Keeping it simple seemed best.
He watched her with an unfathomable look, and she closed her eyes, his gaze too distracting. Especially when she’d just drunk blood from his arm.
“Tig an neart ó dhorchadas glé.”Strength comes from a shining dark.
It helped to focus on her intent, to take her mind off the taste of him filling her mouth. His blood was inside her, and herstomach clenched at the thought.Give him my power. He needs my power.
“Ag cruinniú—” She gasped as her insides twisted and knotted, like the muscles themselves were wringing out, stealing her breath with the stabbing sharpness of it. “Ag cruinniú i gcroí… ag las—”
She clutched her stomach as sudden knife-like jabs pierced her, spreading across her back and ribs, then down into her thighs. “…ag lasadh mé.” She doubled over, clenching her eyes tight against the pain.
Why was the spell fighting her so?Just some of my power. Give him some.
“Ma chérie,” he said urgently, the words heavy with worry.
She held a hand up to ward him off—or tried to. She felt so weak that it was more a limp wave than the firm barrier she had intended. Shehadto finish the spell. “Mar shruth ó bhé—”
She cried out, unable to stop herself. Something gnawed at her insides, a deep, burning ache punctuated with breath-stealing stabs that radiated out through all of her. “…ó bhéal… mar lasair…”
The words blurred in her memory, fogged by pain.Focus, Cally.“…mar lasair ó lár.”
She felt lightheaded, delirious. But there was only one more line to say. “Imíonn sé…” She was going to pass out. No, she was going to throw up. “…Imíonn sé…”
Damn it, she’d done that bit. What came next?
The coffee table, as it turned out—striking her temple as she slumped forward, Antoine’s hands closing around her a second too late.
And then there was blackness.
