Page 22 of Blood & Bedlam

“Get her out of here!” Camille shouts, struggling to get a good grip on her father. The smaller woman who sat next to Juliette approaches me, but the moment she moves into Vladimir’s vision, an unnatural sound rips from his chest and with a whip of his power, the bodies holding him back are thrown wide into walls, knocking over the pillaged liquor cart from earlier, leaving his family stunned.

Groans and whimpers ring out, but the beast that is Vladimir is on the table in an instant, stalking toward me with conviction. Dishes and glassware cascade to the floor. His gaze stays fixated on me, pits of obsidian that obscure any silver left of his irises. I should be scared, but there’s a sense of calm that’s taken over my body, anticipation inexplicably replacing fear. I know I should run, should jump out the fucking window if that’s what it comes to, but my body refuses to budge.

There’s barely space between the table and me, but with less than a thought he’s taking it up without a sound, his body menacing as he towers over me. I look up at him, chin high, because as batshit as it seems, I know he won’t hurt me.

Twenty-four hours ago, another monster tore into my throat and drank my blood like a daiquiri. That alone should be enough to snap me into fight or flight, but it’s not. Vladimir’s breath drops ragged and hard now, his broad chest rising and falling on stuttered gasps. The space between us is too much because, yes—in front of me stands a monster, but also something more, a strength, the sheer power it’s taking for him to hold back even an inch.

“Don’t move,” Fleur whispers.

His skin has a nearly translucent sheen to it, but underneath, I can see him. Vladimir. Around us there are mumbles I can’t decipher, but I hope they keep their distance. Down to the marrow of my bones, I know if they try to get between us, he’ll hurt them.

And he would hate himself.

It’s clear Vladimir loves his family, and he’s not in the driver’s seat right now. I glance down for one moment to the blood still dripping onto the floor, slower now thanks to coagulation. His lips twitch around pearly white fangs, a subdued whine breaching his lips. A whine that turns into a snarl when the big guy from earlier takes a tentative step toward us.

“Get out.”

The words leave my lips in a low command, one I’m not entitled to, but it feels like the right thing to do in this moment. I’m staring back at Vladimir, but they all know my words are meant for them.

“Reine—” Juliette protests. I shake my head.

“Go. We’re fine here.” It’s an insane thought, but my voice is laced with confidence, nonetheless. After a tense moment, they must decide to heed my words, because they move.

Slowly. Cautiously.

Vladimir fidgets as though he’s agitated, rocking slightly on his heel, his chest inches from mine. I’m running on little more than drunken courage and vibes, but he seems to listen to me. I search his eyes, the dark abyss of them, and somehow still see Vladimir. He’s buried in there, somewhere deep, Maybe I can pull him back.

And because I’ve lost my damn mind, I throw all caution to the wind and act on instinct, raising my sliced palm slowly. Another whine sounds like encouragement, and so I keep extending, until his lips are so close that his panted breaths paint my skin. He’s a tapestry of darkness, hidden beneath shades of blacks and grays I could never imagine on my own, and through the horror I can still see how devastatingly beautiful he is.

The breath is trapped in my lungs when my fingertips graze his cheek, as soft a caress as I’ve ever touched another person with. It brings my blood rushing forth, leaking from the jagged flesh of my palm in a wave of deep crimson. There are shocked noises resounding around us, whispers in French I don’t understand, but Vladimir remains still and restrained.

“If you’re going to drink from me, it’ll be on my terms or not at all.” My voice doesn’t waver, and I swallow, surprised. The smallest dip in his chin has me moving again, closing the breath of distance between us. Closer, closer I reach, until his lips press against the curve of my palm. My exhale is sharp as his tongue darts out, eyes never leaving mine while he laps gently against my skin.

Far too gentle for a monster with no control.

His tongue is wet and warm, the blood on his lips a violent contrast to the caution in his touch. I feel it then, the beating of my pulse firing rapidly just under my skin, offering more of my lifeblood. There’s no force here, not like there was last night with the others—we’re both giving something to each other.

I offer my truth while he shows me the darkest part of him.

A sensation builds, low and steady as his mouth moves over me, sharp teeth scraping my skin. He drinks what I freely give him, but there’s a weightlessness to this, a euphoria working through my veins. Pressure builds. The rest of the world falls away and I recall them, the dreams. Moments that have been more companion to me in the dead of night than anything else in my life, and I know without knowing that he can see them too.

“This cannot be happening.” I hear the words, hissed in English, but I can’t place their owner.

“You’re seeing this, right?” another mumbles, this one spoken over the displacement of air around us, but I can’t draw focus enough to see what’s going on beyond this.

There’s a magic between us, strong, overpowering even. I let him see them, the snippets of dreams, the slivers of someone else’s life I feel protective of. My body comes alive under his lips and tongue, the taloned hand he uses to tenderly cup my neck and draw me closer to him. I’m unsure where Vladimir ends and I begin. It’s a slow, subtle fade, watching the ink of his eyes flicker from blacks to grays. The feeling inside builds, rushing, aching, and I’m faintly aware that I’m moving against him, seeking.

Insatiable.

Starving.

He draws drag after drag from the wound on my hand and still I show him every moment, every memory, spiraling in my mind but secure in his arms. When the tension snaps, a shock wave erupts from my core, locking my knees and curling my toes as the most succulent pleasure I’ve ever experienced sends me outside of my fucking body. The resounding groan that echoes from his chest between us is one of sweet surrender. In a haze, I realize the darkness around us has abated, the steel in his eyes visible once more. I blink, and he looks like the man who walked into this room before he lost control. There’s a tenderness to his gaze, and I’m unable to wrench out of his attention. He looks at me with wonder, intoxicating wonder. My blood stains his lips, is smeared across his cheek, but the hand cradling my neck is caressing the skin just beneath my ear in the most lovely way. My mind is fuzzy, my body light as a damn feather.

I can’t bring myself to be embarrassed that I’ve just let him drink my blood and get me off in front of a room full of other vampires.

“There is no one else but us,” he says, his response raw as his thumb traces my jaw. I know I haven’t said those words out loud, but I’m too blissed out to focus on the logistics of how he knew what I was thinking. I look around instead to find we are, in fact, alone, for which I am eternally grateful. Vladimir’s hair is disheveled, his shirt ripped open and torn from the struggle with the others. My gaze drags higher. What I see destroys the haze in my mind.

He wears a look of sorrow so bone deep it makes my own soul ache, of loss and pain and sadness, and I want to take it from him. It feels like every cell in my body is attuned to his. This is the shit that poets write about, the deepest connection between strangers passing in the night that has what-ifs haunting them when they’re old and gray.