“You should not be out of bed,” Smith said.
Blood. Fresh human blood inches away from his face. He rasped his tongue along Smith’s neck before the fog in his mind cleared. Then he shoved his valet away and braced himself against the wall. “Get away.”
The idiotic man did not flee. He tugged off his cravat and exposed his neck. “Drink.”
Marcus’s fangs throbbed. He leaned closer and brought his lips to Smith’s warm flesh but stopped short of biting. He’d made a vow to not consume human blood.
A vow he’d already broken by tasting Winifred the night of their wedding.
And he wasso thirsty.
“Drink, my lord,” Smith said. “I rather enjoy this position and would prefer you do not perish.”
The last of Marcus’s resistance vanished. He plungedhis teeth into Smith’s neck and let his mouth fill with the achingly familiar taste. With each swallow, the sharp edges of his thoughts smoothed. It was like he was a powder-dry sponge uncurling from a twisted and malformed shape as he absorbed precious fluid.
He would owe Smith a significant debt, which he would repay with a generous bonus and a letter of recommendation if he wished to leave the castle after having such an awkward encounter with his employer.
A soft gasp made him look up.
Winifred was standing in the hall with her hands over her mouth.
He licked the blood from his lips and teeth before lifting his head from Smith’s neck.
She stumbled backward, slipped on her skirt, then tumbled to the ground.
“Winifred!” He ran to her, fell to his knees, and placed her head on his lap. His valet was calling out his title, but he didn’t care. She’d seen his true nature and had reacted exactly as he’d feared. When she awoke, she would surely flee the castle, leaving him alone again.
“My lord!”
Marcus looked up. The wound on his valet’s neck was gone, healed by Marcus’s saliva. Smith was slightly paler but showed none of the fear Marcus had seen in Winifred’s expression.
“What shall I do with the countess?” Smith asked.
Marcus stared for several seconds before realizing Smith meant Winifred. The Countess of Kingsberry. His wife. Who had seen him biting his valet. It wasn’t as if he’d intended to keep his nature a secret forever—he’d selected books intended to introduce her to vampirism—but for her to find out in such a way… A vise formed around his chest. If she fled, she might attract the attention of the hunters. He couldn’t allow it. But the idea of locking her up like a prisoner made him sick to his stomach.
“Shall I return her to her room?” Smith asked. “I could speak toher. Explain that you did me no harm.”
Marcus ran a hand through his hair. “Ah…no. Leave it to me.”
Smith rubbed his hands together and shifted on his feet.
“Stop fretting.” Marcus gathered Winifred in his arms. Rising proved a greater challenge, but he pushed through the lingering ache in his thighs until he was back on his feet. Only then did Smith depart.
Marcus proceeded slowly toward Winifred’s room, not wanting her to awaken in his arms after her shock. His strength should have been completely restored after consuming so much human blood, but his right knee made an unpleasant clicking sound with each step.
At least the hunger that had churned in his gut was gone and he could think clearly once again. He had to offer Winifred answers, but first he had to give her a reason to stay. As he would not force himself into her presence, that meant finding some other way to communicate.
They had started with letters, so that was how he’d proceed. When he arrived at her room, he laid her gently atop the bed. She looked so peaceful in slumber that he dared to touch his lips to her temple. Then he grabbed a sheet of paper from a drawer in her desk and hurriedly scrawled out the words that poured from his heart, not bothering to correct any mistakes or clean smudges when he accidentally drew his thumb across freshly written ink.
She did not stir once, although he paused several times to anxiously confirm she was still breathing easily. He told himself he did this out of concern for her welfare, but it was also a stalling tactic. After he left, he might never see her again.
It was likely she would not understand what she’d seen. She would be confused and frightened and would expect him to act like a monster. What he needed to do was remind her he was the same man she’d traveled across the ocean to marry. Once she understood that, and the importance of not revealing his secret, he would offer her freedom. It would shatter what was left of hisheart, but he had orchestrated his death before and would do so again if necessary.
He placed the finished letter on her desk, then checked on his beautiful, brave Winifred once more. She’d drooled on her pillow and there was a faint scent of blood, likely from an abrasion acquired during her fall, but her pulse was steady. He longed to remain at her side, but she deserved a chance to recover from what she’d seen in privacy.
Her spectacles had tumbled to the floor. He placed them atop her commode, then forced himself to exit the room. As the door closed, he leaned his forehead against it and sighed.
“Quite a mess,” Cordon said.
