He stands at the corridor's end. Eyes brighter than I remember, pure gold now. His massive frame fills the space, making everything feel suddenly small.
He looks at my bleeding hand. His nostrils flare.
“Your weapons are sharp,” I say.
He crosses the distance between us in two strides and takes my hand without asking. His fingers engulf mine, pressing the wound closed. His skin is cold as winter stone.
“You were warned not to wander.” His voice is deeper than I remember. Rougher.
“I was hungry.”
“You were bleeding before this.” He can smell it—the dried blood under my nails, the reopened crescents on my arms. “Why?”
“Because it feels good.”
“Good how?”
I could lie. Make something up. But I'm tired and bleeding and done with pretending.
“It makes me feel... alive. Makes me feel something.”
His grip tightens slightly. Not painful, just firm. “And now?”
“Now your castle has done it better than I ever could.”
Something passes through his eyes. Not anger. Something hungrier.
“This needs binding,” he says.
“I know. I was a medic.”
“A medic who hurts herself.”
“The irony isn't lost on me.”
He's still holding my hand. Blood seeps between our pressed palms. The hunger in his expression intensifies, and I realize he's not breathing.
“What are you?” I ask.
Instead of answering, he says, “This will hurt.”
“Good.”
The word surprises us both.
He stares at me. Then slowly, deliberately, he lifts my bleeding hand to his mouth.
His lips brush my palm first. Cold, soft pressure against torn skin. I shiver, but not from cold. The anticipation builds as he hovers there, breath warming my blood.
Then he bites.
His teeth pierce deeper than the original wound. Sharp points sliding through skin and into flesh beneath. The pain explodes through my palm, up my arm, radiating through my entire body.
I moan. This is something new. I can't help myself. The sound tears from my throat, raw and needy.
The pain is everything—bright and consuming and perfect. It burns away thought, the gnawing emptiness, the constant noise in my head. But more than that. A deep, insistent ache settles low in my belly. My nipples tighten against the rough fabric of my dress. My pulsepounds in places that have nothing to do with the wound in my hand.
“Oh fuck.” The words come out breathless. “Oh fuck, yes.”
