Page 49 of Trapped By the Blood Ruby

Marco flinched. “There was no way we could have anticipated⁠—“

“I gave you one job. One fucking job. And you failed. We wouldn’t be in this situation, otherwise.”

But that wasn’t entirely true. Even though he couldn’t admit that. Not right now.

“She needs too much blood, Laurent. You know what will happen if she gets it. The addiction. The secrets.”

“I know exactly what I’m doing.” His voice shook the walls.

Marco swallowed, then nodded. “Then let it be my blood, or Zola’s, or anyone who carries less dangerous memories than you⁠—“

“No,” he snapped. “She’ll have mine. Mine alone.”

Marco gave a jerk of his head. “I can stay⁠—“

“Leave.” The command was barely above a whisper, more dangerous than any shout.

Marco fled.

Only then did he strip away her hospital gown. She’d been naked when he’d found her. The ruin of her body was seared into his memory, mingled with the rancid scent of her urine and feces. They’d left her on a surgery table, tethered and broken like an animal—the culmination of seventy-two hours of torture. Seventy-two hours of him pacing like a caged beast, calling in every favor just to find her. All while imagining the horrors of her fate.

It had been many years since his last fit of rage—seventeenth century sometime, when Berric had been murdered. Seeing her there, so close to death, clinging to life when most humans wouldn’t have. His rage had overpowered him and he’d ripped every fucking witch to shreds, not a single one left alive. He’d burned the entire facility to the ground, including the vials they’d taken from her.

Exhaustion clawed at him now—the rescue, the slaughter, the rush to get her home—but he pushed it aside. She needed him.

He took stock of her lying on the marble floor, her chest barely rising and falling. Even the sound of her labored breaths made his gut clench. His own hands trembled, whether from fear or fury, he couldn’t tell.

Dark bruises fanned out over her chest. Broken ribs, most likely. But that was the least of her injuries.

A knife twisted his insides. Guilt? No. He shoved it down. Guilt was for weaker creatures. He’d killed twenty-nine amplifiers. There’d been no guilt then. There should be none now.

But…never had he made them suffer.

This was… She’d suffered… She’d hurt. Because of him. Because he’d underestimated Dominic’s power.

He lifted his wrist, ruthlessly biting into it. Blood oozed, rushing from his veins. He let it drip over the worst of her wounds, let it come into contact with her open flesh, speeding the process of her healing.

They’d branded her. They’d fucking branded her with their witch mark. His vision tunneled until red spots filled his eyes. He dripped his blood over it, daring to hope, but it did nothing to erase the mark, only soothed the raw skin.

He moved on, pouring his blood where he could. He bit into his wrist again and again, reopening his skin each time it closed. Then he gently lifted her head and worked her jaw open. Her tongue moved against his skin. “Swallow, little flower. It will make you better,” he encouraged, keeping his voice soft.

Behind her lids, her eyes darted back and forth as if stuck in a nightmare. She whimpered. The sound made him flinch.

At last, her throat began to work. “That’s a good girl. Drink.” She choked down swallow after swallow as his blood pooled in her mouth, smearing her lips and chin. Every time his wrist began to close, he savagely ripped it open again. He continued to ply her with his life force, even when he was certain she’d had enough.

His touch lingered upon her, even as his muscles began to relax.

Her pallor faded, a flush returning to her pale cheeks. He rested her back on the marble, loathe to remove himself from her presence. But his blood was working through her body. There was nothing more to do but wait.

The first crack made his teeth clench. Then came another, and another, and another. Bones snapping back into place. She whimpered with each one, a tiny line pulling between her brows. He forced himself to look at her fingers, those beautiful fingers, as they straightened.

His mind betrayed him and a torturous thought crept in. He wondered what it might have done to her to lose the ability to play. What it might have done, had she lived to discover her fingers misshapen. Her music stolen from her.

He’d done this to her. He’d miscalculated. It wasn’t the first time. People had suffered because of him, died because of him. He’d lost aunts and uncles, brothers and sisters, children, grandchildren, friends, acquaintances. It was the cost of running a household, the cost of making difficult decisions, year after year, century after century.

In time it got easier. He’d learned to detach himself, to harden his vampiric heart. But this? This felt…different.

His jaw ached, clenched tightly as he waited. Lily’s chest rose and fell more smoothly. He studied the shape of her, the smooth skin, the dusky pink of her nipples, her full breasts, the flat planes of her stomach, emaciated from lack of food, the lithe muscles running down her body, her legs, the tuft of hair on the mound of her sex—his eyes lingered there a moment, unconsciously.