Page 87 of The Lost Prophecy

“He has been thorough.” He walked away from the fire and paced along the front of the shelves. “Did he also tell you that Georgiana had lived for centuries under his command? That she could not leave Pemberley, form an acquaintance, or make a decision without his consent? I offered her freedom.”

“You offered her another prison with yourself as gaoler.”

“She would have had rank, wealth, and a husband unable to discard her,” he reasoned.

“A husband who despised her, you mean?” she countered.

“I did not despise her. I merely valued other qualities more.”

Elizabeth huffed at him. “You improve your defence with every sentence!”

He stopped pacing. “Darcy has persuaded you that he is honourable because he confessed to wanting your blood before taking it. He will not remain so noble when you refuse him. He has desired humanity for centuries, and you are the only creature who can give it to him.”

“He has already refused to ask.”

“Of course he has. Refusal increases the value of the sacrifice when you offer it. It is his scheme, Miss Elizabeth!”

“You believe every act of restraint is calculation because calculation is the only restraint you practise.”

The darkness began to gather in him again.

Elizabeth held her ground. “You claimed to have brought me here to reveal Mr Darcy’s intentions. You have revealed only your own.”

“My intention is to offer you the choice he fears.”

“To give you my blood.”

“No! To become free!” he shouted.

“While you become human and escape every consequence of the condition you forced on others.”

“I did not force it on all of them.”

“The distinction is unlikely to comfort those you did.”

“Give me your blood,” he urged. “Think of that. Together, we could fight him.”

“I do not require preternatural power to disagree with Mr Darcy. Ordinary conversation has proved sufficient.”

Mr Wickham’s mouth curved, but nothing human entered the expression. “Give your blood to me.”

“No.”

“You have not considered the offer.”

“I considered it while you were making it.”

“Consider it again.” The command entered his voice.

His eyes became black. The room seemed to draw inward, the fire sinking lower while pressure gathered against her mind. It carried no argument, only a demand which expected the body to obey before reason could resist.

“Come to me.” Mr Wickham extended one hand. “Give me your hand and tell me that you consent.”

Elizabeth felt the force of the order, cold and invasive, but it found no place to fasten. Her thoughts were her own, her feet did not move, and her hand stayed against her skirt.

Mr Wickham’s fingers curled.

Elizabeth released a breath. “The True Blood cannot be compelled, Mr Wickham, have you forgotten?”