Page 57 of The Temptation of Roan Island

“Don’t do that. Don’t minimize what happened.”

I spin to look at him and find he’s got one hand on the door, as if to stop me from closing it.

I toe off my dainty slippers, covered in mud from the garden. “I’m not minimizing it. But it was an agreement that benefitted me more than you. Yes, you need blood, but I’m sure there’s more appetizing blood you could have found tonight.”

On some level, I’m aware I’m trying to pick a fight. My body is still coiled tight, and I need to remember what tonight really was. In fact, I never asked him if he wanted to bite me. He probably only did it because Noah told him he should. And then I go and throw myself at him, rubbing up against him like a cat in heat, and begging for his cock. My cheeks burn with embarrassment.

I can’t look at him, so I cross to the vanity on the other side of the room and pull pins from my hair, yanking them out in quick succession.

“Pippa.” The sound of my name from his lips is a warning.

“What?” I keep at my task, refusing to turn around. If I look, I might beg him to stay, to pick up where we left off. I don’t have it in me to be rejected again tonight.

With preternatural speed, he flashes into view in the mirror in front of me. He brushes the loose strands of my hair off my shoulder with one hand while the other lightly traces the already healing marks from his teeth. “Don’t you dare think for a single moment that this didn’t mean something.”

And then—before I can even blink—he’s gone.

I’m left bereft of his company, empty and wishing that he was still here, then hating myself for it. What does he mean it meant something? What did it mean to him? Did he just say that because he’s my friend, and he wanted to help me feel better? He’s made it very clear he doesn’t think of me as more than a friend. He also made it clear at the party that he doesn’t want to have sex with me. But I’m not sure I can think of him as only my friend now. Not after tonight. Not after weeks and weeks of getting to know him.

Unwanted tears sting my eyes, but I brush them away before they can fall. I’ve survived on my own since I was sixteen. I don’t need a man. New Caldon taught me that. And I don’t need Shemaiah. This is just a silly response to the venom. I’m tired and emotional and still coming down from the best orgasm I’ve ever had in my life, the only one I’ve ever had with a partner. That’s enough to make anyone question their own intentions.

I move through the routine of getting ready for bed. Undoing my hair and brushing it before braiding it. When I wash, I linger with the cloth between my legs as I recall the pleasure Shemaiah gave me. It never should have happened.

After dressing in a nightgown, and slipping into bed, I stare at the ceiling, reliving the night. The way my body came alive watching Shemaiah offer his venom to the Frellmans, drinking from them. Did he prefer their taste to mine? The Roans have commented on the bitter scent of our illness before. Did it taste bitter to him? Was it repulsive?

It didn’t seem like it, but I don’t really know much about Mavarri. Maybe to them, blood is blood. Maybe it always has an arousing effect on them. Shemaiah was certainly aroused. The mass at his groin was mammoth, ridged, and as needy as I was. As a chambermaid, I was sometimes tasked with washing men—it’s how I met Tobias’s father—but no man compares to Shemaiah. I can’t imagine how that bulge would even fit inside me. No, not me, any woman.

Oh, but I can imagine it.

I can imagine the way he would stretch and fill me. The way he would stroke and own every part of my body, from my clit to my cervix. The way he would fill me with his seed, fill my womb until I swelled with his child.

There’s no way I’m getting to sleep now.

My imagination mixes with the venom still in my system, leaving me aching for release. My fingers trace my lips, remembering the feel of him. I touch the spot where he bit me, barely raised and already almost all the way healed. I don’t want it to heal. I want his mark on me. I want him here with me.

I bury my head in my pillow and scream, but my hand still drifts between my legs.

One finger pierces my center, then a second. I move them up over my clit, then down into me over and over, up and down, stroke after stroke. I squirm, rubbing my breasts against the bed, seeking more friction everywhere.

“Shemaiah,” I moan.

Finding that spot that makes me clench, I work my fingers in and out while pressing the heel of my hand into my clit, rocking my hips, until I come with an unsatisfying whimper. My muscles go lax, and my head feels heavy. Panting breaths turn to long exhales. I’m unsatisfied, but exhausted. I close my eyes.

A soft knock sounds at the door.

Please be Shemaiah. “Come in.”

The door opens, revealing the last person I expect to see.

24

PIPPA

“Mrs. Darning?” Frowning, I shake my head, propping myself up and pulling the covers to my chest.

The impervious, dour-faced woman has always made me feel a little unnerved, though I’m not sure why. She’s like so many housekeepers I’ve known in my time as a maid. Structured. Disciplined. Focused. On the other hand, she seems to materialize from the ether when she’s least expected. Like now. It’s more than a little unnerving.

She’s dressed in a stark black dress that covers her from the neck down, the collar high and fitted around her slim throat. The only skin visible is that of her face and hands. In her hands there’s a bag that looks similar to Noah’s medical bag, except this one is brown.