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It’s not that bad, really.
Almost instantly, my body feels lighter. The foggy feeling in my head clears, and my fatigue lifts away. It does nothing for the jittery feeling in my stomach, though. Nor does it settle my racing heart.
Neither does it stop warmth from pooling in my belly and spreading between my thighs.
But Idofeel much better.
Corvan was telling the truth. His blood, even when mixed with wine, is a healing elixir.
I open my eyes. He’s standing now, watching me closely. Everything seems clearer. The sunlight—wintery and faint as it is—appears brighter. The colors are more vivid, especially his irises, which are flecked with brown.
A strange sound fills my ears. It takes me a while to realize what it is—the whispering of many voices, speaking a language I don’t understand. Frantically, I look around, but there’s nobody there—only Corvan, watching me intently.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, his brows furrowing in concern.
“I don’t know,” I whisper.
The voices grow louder. The glass—mostly empty—falls from my hand.
Like lighting, Corvan is there, catching the glass before it shatters into a thousand pieces. His big hand curls over my shoulder, his touch gentle in spite of his strength. “What’s wrong, Finley?”
I grip the armrest, my fingers digging into the wood. “I don’t know. I feel better. Not tired anymore. But strange, like there’s something inside me, and it’s fighting to get out.” I grip the chair tighter.
Maybe I’m imagining things, but it almost feels like the wood has turned into soft wax beneath my fingers.
I must be hallucinating.
Fear grips me.
Was there something in that wine?
Did they…drugme?
The whispering grows louder; it’s like a choir, a thousand voices speaking in unison, in a melodic, mournful cadence. I can’t understand what they’re saying, but it’s strangely comforting.
“If… if I told you that I think I’m going mad right now…”
Corvan is staring, but he isn’t looking at me.
His attention is drawn toward my hand, which is curled around the armrest.
His eyes go wide. He whispers something under his breath—a short, sharp curse.
“Ciel!” he bellows.
He turns to me and places his arm around my shoulders, pulling me into him. “That’s enough, Finley. Rest easy. I’ve got you.”
All of a sudden, the vampire archduke is comforting me, and his body feels warm and solid. His scent surrounds me; he smells faintly of leather andmyrnimand crisp, woody fragrance, mingled with something warm and delicious and undeniablymale.
“That’s some strong wine,” I say half-heartedly, hiding my terror as the sound of whispering starts to recede. Relief courses through me.He’s just as surprised as you are. He didn’t poison you.“I hope you weren’t trying to get me drunk, Corvan.”
“Not my intention at all, believe me,” he murmurs, gently removing my hand from the armrest. He threads his fingers through mine, holding my hand still.
His palm is large and callused. That makes sense. I’ve heard he’s a master swordsman.
Across the room, a heavy wooden door opens, and Vinciel appears. He’s changed into more fitting attire; grey trousers and a blue jacket over a crisp white shirt. His long golden hair is tied at the nape of his neck with a dark blue ribbon.
“Explain this,” Corvan growls, gesturing toward the chair. One of his arms is around me. In his other hand is the empty wineglass.
