Even that is different. My structure and discipline continue to wane, as if my sharp edges are softening with each brush of Maeve’s skin against mine, like she’s the river and I’m the stone.
I reach up and scrub a hand over my face, then realize something with startling clarity.
I’m not thirsty.
Usually, I wake feeling parched, like I’ve been traversing a desert with nothing but the clothes on my back and the sun on my face. But this morning, my throat doesn’t ache, and that incessant itch beneath my skin is gone.
Because Maeve’s blood is still feeding me. And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel hollow inside.
I’m still lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, when the beat of my heart shifts subtly. If I weren’t lying so still, I may not have noticed it. Warmth accompanies the change, spreading slowly through my body, like petals unfurling to accept the soft touch of sunlight.
And a knowing arises in me without me having to go searching for it.
Maeve.
Somewhere in this castle, she’s waking.
And I shouldn’t know that. My brow furrows as I continue to stare at the ceiling.
Why do I know that?
For a brief moment, I imagine I can feel the magic in her veins, the storm inside her waking alongside her, stretching itself as though it has limbs.
Then everything steadies. My heart rate goes back to normal, the heat in my body fades, and I’m left lying there in bed, alone, with a cold bite of air against my face.
For a short while, I puzzle over the sensation, wondering if I imagined it.
I push my blankets away and rise, the first touch of my bare feet on the floor sending shivers across my body. Immediately, I light a fire in the hearth, then warm my hands for a moment before moving into the kitchen.
Typically, I drink a glass of blood first thing in the morning, and that’s especially true on Mondays, when I have Maeve in my first class of the day. Her scent, her proximity, the very awareness that she’s near—it’s enough to make my thirst almost unbearable, to test my discipline like nothing else does.
I pull one of my bottles from the blood bank out of the kitchen cabinet and pour myself a glass. The metallic tang reaches me as I lift the glass, but my body doesn’t react as it normally would, with a need so strong it’s almost impossible to ignore. Rather, I feel... disinterested.
Still, I take a sip. And the flavor is so mute as to be almost tasteless. It’s stale, unalive.
In contrast to Maeve’s blood, I’m not sure anything will taste fulfilling or satiating again.
With a shake of my head, I lower the glass without finishing it.
Shit.
I knew this could happen, that a single taste of Maeve’s lifeblood could cause everything else to taste dull in comparison. But I didn’t realize it would be this strong, especially after just one feeding.
And I still don’t know why I feel her with me, inside of me.
I’ve drank from many throats in my long life, but none have ever caused this type of awareness or connection. I’m rather certain I imagined it, imagined I could feel her waking, imagined I felt the squeeze in her heart yesterday when she saw me step from the carriage in the castle courtyard.
Perhaps that’s all this is.
And perhaps there’s no cause for concern.
I move to my wardrobe to get dressed for the day: dark trousers, crisp long-sleeve shirt, waistcoat, jacket. This routine is grounding, something familiar when I feel like everything else is starting to slowly unravel around me. As I fasten the gleaming golden cuffs at my wrists, I catch my reflection in the tall mirror beside the wardrobe.
And all I see is red.
Fuck.
I’d almost forgotten.
