Page 26 of Blood & Bedlam

Angelic music rises to meet us, and my escort stops only a few feet from the priest. His arm leaves mine and I take the time to search the monastery for my betrothed, too nervous to breathe. A throat clears to my left, and I turn to see an outstretched hand, now free of its dark glove. On it I see the golden signet ring bearing the crest of the Dracul, that hand attached to the arm of the escort who saved me from my fall. Embarrassment creeps up my neck as my gaze shifts higher, a teasing smile on what must be my betrothed’s face.

My hand rests on his, and more warmth blooms through the fabric of my glove. The priest speaks, but I cannot stop the glares shooting from my eyes to who must be Vladimir of House Dracul. His shoulders shake as the rites are said, his dark eyes swimming with laughter, and it’s his own amusement that forces fits of silent laughter to my own lips.

“Debauchery, hmm?” he whispers as he lifts away my dark veil, and I feel flames lick up my cheeks, but I show no weakness. Instead, I simply lift my chin and look him straight in the eyes.

“You’re the devil,” I mumble, but there is no venom there. He winks as I turn my attention back to the ceremony, tracing the features of the man who will be my husband in mere moments. The spark of something heady and new, like the bloom of first life through frozen ground, takes root inside of me, and when his lips touch mine in a chaste kiss, we are one.

Our kingdoms are allied, my bones are still frigid, but the heat from the body next to mine feels like an inferno set to devour me with more intensity than the threat of war, of duty, of betrayal.

Down to my marrow, I know that this spark of love will be the death of us both.

The gentle stroke of fingertips over my forehead tugs me farther from the dream, but I want so badly to stay there. I’ve dreamt of him for years but never with that much detail and clarity, never hearing his voice that way. For decades it’s been a garbled jumble of snippets, flashing too quickly to savor, but that … that was fucking incredible. I’m not ready for it to be over.

Memory starts to slip through my fingers like sand just as it always has, but I’m determined to hold on to this one, to make it mine. Now, more than ever, I know that Vladimir and I are connected. Somehow. It feels ancient and overwhelming, but even now, I know that it’s his fingers on my skin, his weight anchoring down the dip in the bed. We are bound, Vladimir and me. My blood sings for him as he whispers softly to me in a language I don’t quite understand but which rings familiar to me all the same. A word snags around my mind, whispered with reverence, and it’s that one little word that sends a bolt of electricity through me, of recognition.

“… mele stea.” My star.

Warmth blooms through my chest as my eyes fly open, searching for the gaze I know will be trained on me. Vladimir’s expression is nearly unreadable as he gently pulls his hand away, severing his touch. It takes everything I’ve got not to chase his palm like a damn dog.

“Your star?” I ask, wincing at the rough rasp in my voice. His eyes grow wide, the rise and fall of his chest halting just like it did earlier right before he drank from me. I expect him to evade my question, keep me in the dark like he’s been doing, but he doesn’t. I’m not prepared for the crack in his voice.

“Mhmm. It’s Romanian. Were you dreaming of us?” There’s an intensity to his gaze as he waits for me to push myself into a sitting position. I’m in the same dress as I was for dinner, but the blood is gone from my skin and—one look at my open palm sends me reeling.

“I took a glass and stabbed it into the heel of my hand an hour ago. Explain to me how the hell it looks like that didn’t happen? And how do you know I dreamt of you?” Gentle fingers cradle my outstretched palm. I fight back the shivers threatening to rip through me.

“Those are complicated questions, Reine,” he mumbles, fingers tracing the lines indented in my skin. I’m on fire from our connection, from the remnants of the dream, from the power charging the air between us, but he takes his time, torturing me with soft touches. “Ah, there.” His nail traces over a small line that on first glance looks the same as the others, but when he tilts my palm, I see the slight shimmer there, the tiny patch of new skin. “Memory is in the Blood, my star, and you showed me everything when you offered yours to me. For a time, we are connected. I’ll feel what you feel. I’ll see what you dream.”

Vladimir’s body bends, his lips gentle and warm as he presses his mouth to my skin. Holy fuck, his lips on my body send heat through me. I feel it everywhere.

“Was it a memory?” I choke. His lips tug up at the corner as he straightens, but he’s so much closer to me now, his scent intoxicating and delicious in the air between us. He nods.

“It was a memory, yes, but I don’t yet know if it’s yours. It could be borrowed or planted by someone hoping to use you to hurt me.” His accent grows thicker, voice low, and I lean closer, lost in his eyes.

“Whose memory, Vladimir?”

“Vlad,” he corrects on a rasp. The pull between us nearly pushes me into his lap.

“Vlad,” I concede.

“I think it may be better to show you. Will you come with me?”

I nod in answer, but he’s already standing, putting space between us. My body follows, desperate not to lose the contact of his hand in mine. He leads me to the ornate mirror hanging on the wall, presses his hand against the glass. It ripples under his touch, and I gasp in what feels a lot like wonder when he pushes through the molten substance, tugging me with him.

We emerge in a massive room filled with antique furniture, with golden frames lining the walls. Vlad pulls me closer. My heart stops beating when I see the art that hangs there.

“These are mine,” I whisper, freeing the hand he’s holding, reaching toward the canvas. Shaky fingers trace the oils, the fingerprints of my art signature all over them. In wonder I move, taking in piece after piece. Here in this secret room is a record of my dreams in the waking world, of memories. A black stone monastery jutting from a mountainside, a meadow covered in snow with a single green bloom breaking through, and Vlad, oh Vlad. He’s the sole focus of most of them, partials of his face, the curves of his body, the scars I know are hidden on him that I have yet to see in person. On and on we walk, a mix of anxiety and awe clawing up through my chest. Vlad stops in front of a large portrait, covered by a thin veil, and though I’m internally freaking the fuck out, I don’t jerk away when he takes my hand back in his and clears his throat.

“These are the works of my wife, Reine. Her name was Mina,” he says softly, gently, voice laced in pain. Before I can argue, because I know my own work when I see it, he reaches up to a golden tassel and pulls, revealing the art behind it.

“What the fuck?!”

I stare up at the larger-than-life depiction of Vladimir and myself, dressed in the same garb from my dream, from our wedding, in oil on canvas. Ringing sounds in my ears, drowning out whatever the hell he’s saying to me. I gape up at the piece. My eyes catch on the brushstrokes, the command of color. A stitch in my chest steals my breath, and I panic. Adrenaline floods my system, short-circuiting my brain. This can’t be real. It can’t.

“No. What the fuck? What the actual FUCK?!” I hiss, taking a step back, running my fingers through my hair. Unease rips across my skin. I turn on my heel, ready to get the fuck out of here. Whatever this is, I’ve hit my limit.

“Reine—” he pleads, reaching for me, but I wrench back, resisting the urge to throw up all over this expensive-ass rug.

“No, I can’t do this. I think I’ve been real fucking cool about everything that’s gone down, but this?” I fling my free arm out to the wedding portrait of us and shake my head. “This is too much. No, I want to go home,” I demand as tears well up. My head spins, and I bowl over, bracing my palm on my knee as bile rises in my throat. Strong hands envelop me, coaxing my body upright before crushing me against his hard chest. A sob rips from my lips at the comfort, everything being too much, too fast, every touch a live wire against my skin.