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“It’s only blood,” she says as if it’s a small thing, and to a vampire, it may be.
But I’m human.
“Drink it,” she says.
“Whose blood is it?”
Her lips purse, the joy leeching from her face.
“If I drink this—” I start.
“Then he is yours until the end of your natural life at which point, he will assume his rightful place at my side,” she finishes.
Would I drink a small vial of blood to have Alaric back? He would do far more for me—he has done more.
If I could be sure Elizabeth’s words were honest, I wouldn’t hesitate. What she says sounds logical—give Alaric something he wants in exchange for his cooperation.
Does it matter?If she wants me to drink this then she will force it down my throat if I refuse.
I pop the cork and the scent of cold metal rises up. Before I change my mind, I throw it back, trying to avoid the taste, and pray to the demons and saints that, for once, it will be this easy.
It’s cold and as thick as syrup, coating my throat on the way down. My mouth tastes like copper, but that will go away soon.
She watches me expectantly. Perhaps she’s waiting to see if I get sick and vomit on the floor so she can declare me unworthy of Alaric.
Heat builds in my veins, warm at first, but my blood grows hotter by the second until it feels like a thousand pins and needles stab my entire body all at once.
“What did you do to it?” I croak. My hands go around my neck in an attempt to block the pain. Each word is a hot knife slicing the inside of my throat.
Elizabeth tsks her disapproval, and instead of answering me, she leans back in her chair and folds her smalls hands in her lap.
The agony seeps into my muscles and bones until it feels as if some dark magic is flaying me alive, each layer of flesh being slowly carved away. My muscles contract until I can no longer control them of my own volition.
My spine arches with a snap. Each shattering breath is filled with fire and acid. My chair tips, sending me crashing to the floor, and curling into myself. The pain is unbearable, but it’s more than that.
Something is very, very wrong.
I’m dying.
She poisoned me, and I took it without question. I was stupid, for believing she would make this kind of a deal to gain Alaric’s cooperation instead of using force or cruelty.
Writhing on the cold floor, I wait for death to take me, to end this excruciating agony I can’t get away from.
A brush of fabric against my bare arm feels like burning ice. I peel my eyes open to find Elizabeth lying on the floor next to me, watching my suffering. Satisfaction sparkles in her eyes as her lips curl into a pleased smile. Elizabeth lifts herself up and brings her mouth close to my ear.
“You may bear his mark, girl, but he will never be yours,” she says with a saccharine, sing-song lilt.
I cry out, clawing at my chest as pain lashes through me. The fire in my veins turns to ice. I can’t even form words to respond to her.
This was all a trap. From the seamstress to Elizabeth’s request for a chat, and the offer of compromise.
Alaric strides through the door as if summoned from my thoughts, freezing as he takes in the scene, gaze shifting from me to Elizabeth.
Setting my focus only on him, I try to call out, but all I manage is a strangled groan.
With inhuman speed, he kneels at my side, gathering me into his arms. Every touch, every movement, is pure agony. Tears spill freely from my eyes, streaming down my cheeks in burning rivulets.
“Is she dying?” he asks.
