Page 17 of A Betrothal So Bloody

I lunge for the end of the bed and swipe at him. He knocks the blade out of my excited, trembling grip.

“Hang on a moment. I can explain,” he says quickly. “It’s not what it looked like.”

Cursing, I double back across the mattress for the nightstand, then leap from the bed to strike again with another blade. His fingers crush around my wrist and force me to let go, and the knife skitters away across the ground.

I’m surprised when he releases me, but not enough to freeze again. He’s holding back. Why? I dive for the bureau and brandish a stake in one hand, a vial clutched discreetly within my other fist.

“How many weapons do you have?” he exclaims in exasperation.

Breathing heavily, I circle him slowly, then lunge. This time, I’m prepared when he attempts to relieve me of the stake. It’s never a matter of overpowering a vampire—with their ungodly strength, that’s nearly impossible. No—I just have to outmaneuver him.

With my other hand, I splash the vial of holy water on him. The skin across his forearm and neck sizzles, but he whips his face away at the last second. He hisses and staggers back, giving me the perfect opening.

With a cry, I raise the stake. He dodges again to the left just enough to save himself, taking the brunt of the strike to his shoulder. Not enough. Not his heart.

“Ow,” he grunts, glaring pointedly as I wrench the point from his flesh.

When I come at him again, he doesn’t bother simply disarming me. Dante seizes me bodily, and I only have time to yelp before he drags me to the ground and throws himself atop me. I squirm, but it’s no use. He pins my wrists to the floor as he straddles me, knees hugging my hips. I refuse to release the stake, but I can’t lift it.

Anguish drenches me.

I’ve failed again.

I don’t stop fighting, even as I begin whispering prayers—a jumble of them overlapping nonsensically, certain he is about to drain me. Every slayer swears to end herself before she is made into a thrall or a fledgling. I make myself that promise again. I will not be his. I will not.

“Quit that,” he sighs. “I’m not trying to hurt you. If I let you go, will you stop trying to impale my heart on a stake?”

My prayers cease, and I gape at him. He eases up ever so slightly.

“Fucking vampire filth!” I shriek, rolling him over with some difficulty. My hips ache from the effort, but I relish the pain of still being alive and lift the stake. I bring it down hard, but the point smashes against the floorboards as he jerks his head out of the way.

“I suppose that’s a no,” he says.

The stake is ready to splinter, but I swing it down again anyway, only to have him seize my wrist and strike the floor with even more force, shattering the wood into pieces.

I snatch the largest shard and strike out desperately, but he jerks his head forward sharply and bashes his forehead against mine. My vision goes dark, and the next thing I know, he’s on top of me again. This time, his weight is unrelenting.

“You’re only going to hurt yourself,” he says, his voice infuriatingly steady while I can scarcely draw a full breath. “Could you do us both a favor and stifle that bloodlust for a single moment and listen?”

“My bloodlust?” I croak. “You’re trying to drain me!”

He rolls his eyes like I’m being unreasonable. “I was only trying to sneak a swallow or two. Had you slept through it like a good little wife, you would have been none the wiser. So if you think about it, this whole mess we find ourselves in is really your fault.”

I bare my teeth—seething, almost snarling. “You fucking hypnotized me, you lying fuck!”

“Only a little,” Dante says, a smirk flickering. “It would have been far gentler if I’d been at full strength. Sorry about that, darling.”

I growl, heels scrabbling uselessly against the floor. My blades and stake slivers are too far out of my reach, so I settle for a single spit at him, hoping to throw him off guard enough to gain the upper hand again. But he remains like a marble statue pinning me down, shaking his head wearily.

“I was doing it for the both of us, you know,” he insists. “To protect us. I have only drained animals recently, but their blood doesn’t sustain or bolster me in quite the same way. I need to be stronger.” He winces, lips curling enough to allow a peek at his fangs. “And the taste… Well, imagine eating nothing but boiled potatoes for the rest of your life.”

There’s a soft squelching sound—his tunic has come unlaced, revealing a window of his toned chest. The holy water burns on his skin are slowly mending before my eyes.

“Why the fuck wouldn’t you just drain a servant?” I snarl. “Why the effort of these theatrics?”

“And have them waltz down to their families with a pretty mark on their necks? My god, you really think I’m an idiot, don’t you?”

I grind my teeth, hating to admit there's logic in his words. Tales of a drained boar or missing animals would be far less likely to attract attention than devoted citizens plucked from the streets.